Fire and Flame (6 page)

She should have been relieved her bloodlust had faded in the face of mortification. And her sobbing had become a manageable sniffling. Now she could dress for the looming funeral without tearing anything.

Though putting on mascara and eyeliner would be pointless, she did it anyway. Sara carefully made up her face as she would any day, taking special care with concealer around her tired and reddened eyes. She pulled her hair into a messy bun away from her face that would complement her plain black sheath dress. Sara finished the look with a black straw hat and fine mesh veil.

There was one thing Fire witches did best: funerals.

She set the heel of her black pump on the first stair, drawing in a steadying breath for courage. Her tiara box was in her left hand while the right held the banister for strength.

Brent stood gazing out the living room window toward the front of the house. Clad in his somber black suit tailored for his frame he looked uncommonly handsome. His usually unruly hair was slicked back from his crinkled forehead in a style reminiscent of the roaring twenties. The clean-shaven skin of his cheeks no longer de-emphasized the bubbled scars beneath his chin.

He turned toward her when her foot hit the slate floor at the bottom of the stairs. Brent’s gaze went to hers, searching for something though she wasn’t sure what. With an uncharacteristic bumbling movement, he held out his arm to her. She couldn’t help but look at it as if she had no clue what to do with it. And she didn’t. Brent didn’t know how to behave like a gentleman. Why was he pretending to now?

“The car is here,” he told her as if it was explanation enough. “We have a few minutes if you’d rather wait.”

“No.” She set her hand atop the cool fabric on his forearm. Sara wouldn’t leave if she didn’t step out of the house this instant.

The jingling of him checking for his keys was the only sound he made before opening the front door. Drizzle misted beyond, coating everything in a dreary fog. A miserable day fitting for the task ahead. There was a click and a snap and then Brent held a golf-sized umbrella over the porch.

She let him help her down the low stairs because it seemed to be what he needed. But she was eager to be away from him once they’d reached the car. Thankfully the limo driver waited beside the car door to assist her in.

Brent went around to the other side without a sound. He climbed in beside her, setting the damp umbrella on the floor between them. No words were exchanged. Too soon they arrived at the McKenna plot in the private cemetery. The day became a whirl of sympathy from countless familiar faces beneath the black canvas canopy that shielded them from the elements.

Sara started crying the moment she spotted the gleaming mahogany tower urn—a highly polished piece as beautiful as the box clutched in her left hand. Her silent tears increased when she saw the granite stone with her mother’s name inscribed feet away. Though they hadn’t been in love, Fintan had always said he’d wished he’d known Sonya better because she’d produced a gem in Sara. Perhaps they’d have a second chance when they were reborn from their ashes.

Regally Sara walked the narrow red carpet across the lush green grass to the chairs at the front of the gathering. Though empathy was apparent in the faces of many, satisfaction could be found in the eyes of a startling number, even on those she’d counted as friends. Sara ignored it as she settled onto the wooden seat in front of the giant oil painting of her father’s unsmiling visage.

He’d commissioned the work so they’d have something to remember him by. Rather than smile as Sara had begged, Fintan had insisted upon being painted as a formidable man. He’d never made her see him as he was—as the powerful high priest who had earned his place over the Ohio River Valley. He’d tried to shield his princess from violence.

The violence had hurt her nonetheless.

Brent settled silently beside her in the wooden chair her father would have held had this been any other coven member’s funeral. His rigid frame gave her a measure of comfort she ought not feel. He was only doing his duty by his dead mentor. Whatever she’d thought he’d wanted from her had been disproven when he’d run from her bed this morning.

The white-haired Cleric who presided over the area funerals appeared beneath his black umbrella. He took his spot behind the portable pulpit. With an irritatingly slow pace, the man spread out papers he didn’t need. His deep brown eyes lifted, meeting Sara’s tear-filled gaze. She responded to the respectful bow of his head with one of her own.

“Life is a curious journey,” he began the service every Fire witch beneath the canopy had heard countless times in their lives. The Cleric mixed it up here and there but the message was always essentially the same.

Witches lived. Witches died. Witches were reborn. Perhaps they’d loved. They’d certainly lost. Along the way they hopefully learned something.

Sara wanted to hurl her tiara box at the Cleric’s head. Everyone beneath the canvas canopy blithely accepted this was the way of things. No one questioned why it was perfectly reasonable for a redneck with a lucky shot to take over his learned neighbor’s tiny kingdom. Each of these Fire witches believed the powerful were entitled to what they could grab. Each except Sara.

It was barbaric! She didn’t want to live like this any longer. Sara certainly didn’t want to breed—to bring another child like her into this world of endless violence.

Brent stirred beside her. She kept her attention on the oil painting.

“Priest Conley,” the Cleric called out. “Would you care to speak a few words?”

Her companion lifted himself to his feet in a smooth motion. He soon crossed the carpeted space to the pulpit with sure steps. The Cleric took the vacated place beside Sara. His wrinkled lips offered quiet words of regret while reminding her that her father was even now being reborn into something greater. Sara didn’t know how it was possible.

“Fintan McKenna was a great man,” Brent announced in a loud volume without the need of a microphone. “None of us gathered here need to be reminded of what we’ve lost but we owe it to our high priest’s memory to speak the words regardless.”

He lifted his dark head a few inches. “Priest McKenna was no ordinary high priest. He believed in exhausting all avenues of diplomacy before resorting to violence. He was unique among his peers in that he only ordered aggression when he believed it was absolutely necessary. And unlike his contemporaries, concepts like greed and envy were alien to Fintan. He believed in hard work—in
earning
a place in life. Yet Fintan gave of himself in everything. His wealth was the coven’s. His time was his people’s. His success was the success of all.”

Brent paused for a silent moment that carried with it a weight of meaning Sara couldn’t quite grasp. When he began again, it was in a firmer voice. “Conversely the coven’s sorrow was his as well. Nothing was too insignificant for Fintan’s personal attention. He never made anyone feel as if they were a burden. Rather, he cherished every soul placed into his care. He made it his mission to push each of us to the pinnacle of our potential. For Fintan believed a coven whose every member, from the weakest to the strong, performing at the peak of their ability, was more powerful than a coven headed by several strong entities carrying the weak.”

Green eyes glittered as they scanned over the silent gathering. “It was a crime so honorable a man was struck down in his prime.” He shook his head in a jerking gesture then abruptly marched away from the pulpit.

Confused whispers broke through the gathering as the Cleric scrambled to his feet and took up his place. The white haired man sent Sara a meaningful look. She gave him a small shake of her head.

No, she could not speak of her daddy’s memory. Not without lambasting the very institution in which he’d lived and died. It wouldn’t be respectful to rant and rave. She’d merely quietly mourn him.

Several others had no such qualms. They eagerly took the pulpit, droning on about how lucky they’d been to know Fintan and how sorry they were he was gone but that it was the way of things. Clearly it had been his time, one said.

A cool hand covered hers as her temper rose. Sara sent a startled glance at the owner of the limb. Brent stared at her with empathy shimmering in his eyes. She squeezed his palm with her chilled fingers in return. His words at the pulpit had proved he’d loved Fintan nearly as much as she had.

The whispers lifted when the Cleric once again silently appealed to her. Again she shook her head. Derisive jibes about the
princess
echoed beneath the canopy from all sides. Sara straightened angrily. Couldn’t they for once concentrate on respecting a person’s memory rather than gossip?

Finally the Cleric closed the service with a prayer to the Phoenix. The gathering made their way to the host’s home, giving the immediate family a few moments to mourn in peace.

Sara sat rigidly until the canopy was empty of all but her and Brent. “Do you need a few minutes with him?”

“I’ll be waiting at the car,” he answered before setting her hand atop her lap.

His footsteps faded on the carpet. Sara stared at the oil painting. The pattering of the rain on the stiff canvas above was the only sound she heard.

“Oh, Daddy,” she moaned, bursting into fresh tears. “Why couldn’t you have become a Cleric?”

Sara allowed herself to cry now, resolving to be brave hereafter. With shaking shoulders, she made herself stand. The walk to the ghastly sodden hole cut in the earth took forever.

Her fingers trembled as she took hold of the wooden urn from its temporary pedestal. Sara’s entire body quaked when she lowered herself to a kneeling pose and set the urn in its new home.

The wood would degrade over time then perhaps the ashes would be reborn exactly like her society’s revered Phoenix.

She set her precious cherry tiara box inside the pit beside the urn. Slowly Sara covered both with a handful of earth.

She stared at the remnants of everything she’d held dear. Her tears slid freely down her cheeks as she left them both behind.

For if there was no king, there could be no princess.

Chapter Eight

If Sara had to nod in respect to one more witch, she’d scream. She’d ducked up the stairs into her room after a mere forty-five minutes of listening to the endless words of sympathy and watching countless witches fawn over Brent when they’d thought she wasn’t looking. And when she
had
been looking, their smiles had been false. Their eyes had held the truth of their sentiments.

Everyone pitied her. Especially her friends.

Fintan’s princess had been left alone in her little kingdom with no way to protect herself. Inevitably their gazes strayed to Brent while they spoke to her. Pity then turned into something worse. Be it envy or lust, no one looked at Brent as they did her. And everyone expected Fintan’s protégé to protect her.

Never before had Sara felt like an utter failure. As a Fire witch, Sara may well have been the weakest element in Fintan’s coven. He’d never made her practice her casting when she’d cry that she hated it. Her father had allowed her to explore the non-aggressive avenues of their abilities without pressing her. Had he pushed everyone to their ultimate potential except her?

Seated at the edge of her blush pink bed within the room she’d adored as a child, she hissed at herself for thinking ill of her daddy. He’d known it upset her to think of anything in pain. And he’d respected her decision to live a peaceful life as much as she could. He’d said she would be safe if she never attempted to become a priestess. But he’d never counted on this happening.

Was the only way to win to fight Fire with Fire? It was cliché, yes, but no one among her race would listen to a pacifist. They would have no choice but to consider her counsel if she became as powerful as them.

Sara shot to her feet before she could reconsider her decision.

****

She was barefoot with swollen but determined eyes as she pounded down the stairs in her black finery. She cut through the gathered crowd of mourners with her attention fixed solely on Brent. Exhilaration zinged through him from the tips of his ears right on down to his toes even though he had no idea why she’d come.

But he could certainly fantasize. Heated visions of her grabbing his neck, of her tugging him down the inches to her lips, warmed his skin to a feverish sheen.

Brent would be lost if she kissed him. A thousand witches could literally set him on Fire but it would be nothing compared to what Sara could enflame with a mere touch.

He knew it even if she’d never done it.

Sara halted in front of him, tossing aside the strands of honey hair that had fallen from her bun in her grief. “I want you to teach me.”

His jaw went slack. Oh the things he’d like to teach Sara. None of which were fit for the prying ears of the entire local coven and half of the regional ones. Brent recovered himself enough to take her fingers lightly in his and guide her to her father’s office. He closed the door then faced her.

“I’m tired of being looked at like a weakling,” she declared before he’d opened his mouth. “You all call me princess when you don’t think I’m listening. It’s not a pretty title. It’s meant as an insult.” Sara lifted her chin regally as if she
were
royalty. “I know what everyone thinks of me.”

“You shouldn’t care what everyone thinks of you,” Brent heard himself saying even though he’d always cared what was thought of him. Especially what
she
thought of him.

Sara gave him an impatient look before tracking across the room filled with matching mahogany furniture. She settled on the edge of Fintan’s desk as she always did. Seeing her there—in the spot Fintan had indulgently allowed her when no other could so much as lean on the sturdy piece—brought a dull ache to his chest. He missed her father dearly.