Vicious Flames

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Dasha Sogoloff

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Copyright

Copyright © 2024 by Dasha Sogoloff

ISBN-13: 979-8-9922221-3-5

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or deceased, places, buildings, products, events or incidents is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

Valeria

“Put your fucking hands in the air!”

I freeze mid-step, my fingers pausing over my phone, and slowly lift my head in the direction of the scratchy voice. My eyes lock with murky dark ones belonging to a homeless-looking man who’s pointing a gun in my direction. Though the alley we stand in—the exit of which he’s blocking—is dark and sparsely lighted, I can see him well enough to briefly study him. His clothes are tattered, there’s a residue of white powder under his nose, his facial features are sunken, he twitches randomly, and his pupils are so dilated that they swallow his irises.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I eye the gun in his hand, deciding whether or not to go ahead and charge him, like my instincts are pushing me to do. Although being the descendant of a Greek god means I’m particularly difficult to kill, a bullet to the brain or heart will still put me out of commission permanently. A bullet anywhere else on my body, however, will heal within a few days and merely be a minor irritation. I’ve not been shot, but that’s what would happen, according to my father—who’s gotten shot more times than he can count. Running an expansive crime syndicate tends to lead to bullet wounds.

And here I thought I’d have a peaceful night. My mood was as positive as I’m capable of while working at my official studio, and I was looking forward to going home and spending time with my siblings. Now, I’m pissed, and being pissed is never a good thing for a person whose emotions are directly tied to their magical abilities.

“Are you deaf? Hands—in—the—air!”

I wince at how loud he’s yelling. If it wasn’t the middle of the night in a dodgy part of Brooklyn, his voice alone would likely garner attention of passerby’s. As it is, I very much doubt anyone will be coming to my rescue. Not that I need it—a knight in shining armor would just piss me off even further. I like to handle situations on my own.

When my would-be mugger takes the safety off his pistol, I relent with an irritated sigh, dropping my phone in my purse and lifting my hands as per the junkie’s instructions, but not before clicking the panic button installed on the side of my phone that’ll send my location to both my father and Preston—the current sentinel who’s on shift to watch over me—that something’s wrong. I’ll probably get yelled at for not texting Preston as soon as I was done at my studio, but better late than never.

I’d give it three minutes, tops, before Preston comes running—which means if I want to take care of this situation on my own, now is the time.

“Throw me your bag!” the junkie yells.

I purse my lips, casting a glance at my bag. My younger sister, Jules, got it for me for my eighteenth birthday this year, which means I’m particularly fond of it. I have no intention of letting this asshole get his filthy hands on it.

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no for me, dude,” I tell him, silently counting the seconds and running through options.

Should I do what my father would expect and wait till Preston gets here, or take care of the robber myself?

His eyebrows furrow just before his lips flatten into a thin line, and he thrusts the gun forward in threat, cocking it. “Give me the fucking bag, now!”

“There’s no need to use the word fuck like it’s punctuation,” I point out. “Besides, I already told you I won’t part with this bag. Now, since I’m a good sport, I’ll give you a fair warning: if you don’t back off in the next ten seconds, your soul will be departing from your body.”

He blinks several times, looking astounded with my gall. Then, his eyes flash with anger, and the gun goes off with a deafening boom. I leap to the side, but I’m not fast enough to avoid the bullet altogether. It grazes my shoulder, leaving a trail of burning pain in its wake, drawing a hiss from me. 

Instantly, my anger hits the red zone. My elation of my successful day disappears, and is replaced with pure, uncontrollable rage. That this man dares to harm me sends a wave of fury coursing through my veins, which kicks my magic into overdrive. My power surges to the surface, and my primary ability shoots to life. Both of my hands ignite with a crackling, aggressive fire, comprised of golden, orange, and crimson flames that light up the dark alleyway.

The power feels heavenly—like a warm, comforting embrace encompassing my hands and wrists. What’s truly intoxicating, however, is the fear on the human’s face, as well as the knowledge that his life now lies in my hands.

A red haze covers my vision, and I look at the junkie with lethal intent.

His jaw drops, his gun falling shortly after as he’s stunned into silence and stillness. Yeah, that’s probably the reaction most humans would have to witnessing the use of any magic, let alone a deadly fire that doesn’t burn me.

His voice trembles as he stumbles back several feet, terrified. “W-what are you?”

I smile, thinking of the painting I finished today—the twisted beauty of it. “Damnation.”

With that, I send my fire in his direction. It travels from my hands to the ground, where it proceeds to scorch the pavement as it shoots towards the junkie.

I’ve never killed before—haven’t had a reason to—but I always knew it was a matter of when, not if. Not only is the descendant world a vicious place with constant wars and conflict, I’m also the heir to a crime syndicate that deals with blood as currency.

Sometimes literally.

So, I watch with vivid interest as my flames tear their way towards the human. He turns on his heel and attempts to run, but a coil of fire shoots out, wraps around his ankle and yanks, forcing him to fall to the ground. He lets out a shriek and tries to struggle against the rope of fire, but it’s utterly useless. He’s entirely trapped, and I’m entirely enthralled while watching the show.

Should’ve brought smores supplies.

Most descendants begin manifesting powers at around seventeen, and we all have at least one primary ability—mine being summoning fire—as well as the gift of being able to wield many forms of magic. My power, however, first manifested when I was merely twelve. So, while other descendants my age are in the learning phase of dealing with their power, I’ve known for years not only how to summon fire, but how to shape and manipulate it.

“Stop!” the junkie screeches.

I drop my purse, take slow, measured steps towards him, and direct my rope of fire to start coiling up his leg.

“I gave you a fair warning, and you shot me. You really have nobody to blame but yourself,” I tell him, coming to a stop a few feet away from him.

I glance down at my shoulder wound, assessing it. As soon as I see the blood leaking from it, dripping a steady stream down my arm, off my hand, and onto the old, cracked pavement below, my anger comes back with a vengeance and redoubles. This person drew blood from me, shot at me, threatened my safety.

The soft crackling noises my fire’s been making suddenly turn impossibly loud, roaring. I glance back at the human, and blink in confusion when I see that my orange and red flames wrapped around his leg has somehow turned blue and black. The flames are… otherworldly. The sheer power radiating from them makes my skin prickle and break out in goosebumps. They glow in the darkness surrounding us, radiating a bright light tinged with blue. Despite the beauty of it, I find myself knowing two things in my very soul; first, this fire isn’t just deadly, it’s pure destruction; second, I’m dealing with a type of power that shouldn’t exist.

I watch in silent astonishment as this new fire grows until it’s taller than me. I can feel the violence and aggression it brings—both of which frighten me. Then, it dives down, and envelopes the human completely, to the point where I can’t see him beneath the flame.

I stare at the scene wide-eyed and utterly stunned, unable to move or even think. I don’t have the presence of mind to so much as twitch a muscle—I’m too stupefied. After ten or so seconds, the fire disappears into thin air, and I’m left gaping, even more astonished than I was when my flames turned blue and black.

The human is gone. Entirely. As if he was never in this alley in the first place—as if he never existed. I hold up my hands, examining them, wondering what in all the hells I just managed to do—wondering how I did it. I’ve summoned fire hundreds of times—but never has that fire turned blue before… simply erasing its target.

Then, it hits me. I remember a book on dead magical abilities I read a few months back, recall the chapter that discussed the ability to summon flames from the deepest pits of Tartarus. Officially named Tartarus’ Fire but mostly referred to as Tartarus Fire, the otherworldly flame is blue and black, and so destructive that it could scorch the entire earth if used recklessly—it decimates any and everything in its path. While a regular fire can be trapped or extinguished by spells or other elements, Tartarus Fire is entirely invulnerable. It can’t be stopped. It can’t be slowed. It can’t be controlled by anyone but it’s wielder—and all accounts say it’s beyond difficult to gain whole control of it.

There’s a reason Tartarus Fire is a dead magical ability; no person should be able to retain that amount of power. It’s too destructive, too harmful, too much. The fire I’ve known how to summon for years is aggressive and dangerous, but Tartarus Fire is… incomprehensibly violent and thirsty for blood.

Oh, dear gods.

I grew up knowing I would be powerful. As an early generation descendant of Nyx, the primordial goddess of the night, it was inevitable that my magic would be particularly concentrated and therefore strong. But this? I never saw this coming. As much as I enjoy the concept of power, Tartarus Fire isn’t a responsibility I want. Such abilities aren’t gifts—they’re curses.

“Valeria…?”

My attention shifts from the place where the junkie was before Tartarus Fire consumed him to the end of the alley—where Preston stands.

As I anticipated, he came running after receiving the notification that I hit the panic button on my phone. Now I’m almost wishing I didn’t, because Preston—a man part of Dad’s inner circle, one of his sentinels, someone I’ve known my entire life—is staring at me like I’m a monster. He’s well over six feet tall, has the build of a quarterback, and is known to strike terror into anyone stupid enough to cross him—or harm any member of my family. And yet, there’s genuine fear in his expression, along with so much disgust.

Preston is a fourteenth-generation descendant of Zeus. It’s rare to see a descendant who’s less than fifteenth-generation, because most gods lost interest in copulating with humans several centuries ago. So, Preston is very powerful, otherwise he wouldn’t have made the cut for a sentinel. I’ve never seen fear in his expression—not even in deadly situations.

At least he’s here now.

I’m shell-shocked, terrified of myself for the first time in my life, and in desperate need to go home and confer with my father. Preston’s presence is a comforting one I’ve known from earliest memory, one I couldn’t be more grateful for right now, even if he watches me like I’m a ticking time bomb.

“Just how much did you see?” I ask shakily.

Preston takes tentative steps towards me—as if afraid the Tartarus Fire will return and swallow him whole.

He stops two feet away from me. His expression hardens with resolve, and it sends a chill down my spine. “Enough to know you can’t be allowed to live.”

Before I can process the meaning behind his words, Preston grabs me by the neck, and throws me into a gritty brick wall. My head collides against the bricks painfully and stars explode in my sight as a wave of dizziness and nausea threatens to pull me under.

Did my own sentinel really just throw me against a brick wall with obvious intent to harm?

No…Preston couldn’t have done that. He’s one of four men my father trusts to guard me—he’s pledged to give his life in order to protect mine. He couldn’t have possibly thrown me against an alley wall.

But as I slump to the ground, clutching my spinning head with a groan, I realize that he very much did.

I manage to lift my head, wincing at the pain. Preston remains in his position, his face twisted with remorse, but eyes shining with resolve. He’s truly going to kill me. He looks cemented with his decision as he lifts his right hand and starts flexing his fingers. Magic builds in his palm, crackling bright blue. Pain shoots through my heart as understanding dawns that somebody I trusted completely and even had affection for—a rarity for dark god descendants—is going to end me, because of an ability I neither asked for nor want.

My anger comes back yet again, this time interwoven with the pain of betrayal. I can feel my palms beginning to heat up—a precursor for my fire—but for once, I fear the sensation, because I don’t know which fire I’ll summon.

“Preston,” I murmur, trying to force down my power. I meet his eyes beseechingly. Even though he threatened me, I don’t want to be his executioner, but I have no control over this brand-new ability. If I’m threatened, it’s sure to rise. “Preston, please.”

“I’m truly sorry, Valeria,” he says, looking genuinely regretful. “This is nothing against you, but dead powers need to stay dead.”

He throws the deadly orb of magic; Tartarus Fire roars to life again, intercepting and destroying the orb of magic before descending on Preston with the vehemence of a tempest. I bite my lip, eyes filling up with tears as someone I truly cared for is swallowed alive right in front of me. This is what having a dead power means. It means that if anyone finds out, I’ll be attacked relentlessly, even by people I thought I could trust.

The fire crackles out and disappears as I draw my knees to my chest, my heart aching and my mind racing.

Everything’s going to be different now. I’ll never be the same person I was before I somehow summoned Tartarus Fire. I’ll always have to keep a tight leash on myself—something I’ve never much cared to do since I mastered summoning normal fire. I’ll always be afraid that I might lose control of Tartarus Fire and go beyond the point of no return.

I’m so wound up that I yelp when my phone starts to ring within my purse. Unable to stand yet because of dizziness—I’m probably concussed—I crawl over the grimy, dirt-littered ground, reach into my purse with a shaky hand, and retrieve my phone.

Seeing my father’s name as the caller ID, I swipe and pick up, looking around the alley—at the scorch marks Tartarus Fire left behind—with abject horror.

“Valeria,” my dad’s deep voice sounds from the other end of the line. “I got the notification you hit the panic button. What happened? Is Preston with you?”

Unable to keep my tears contained, I say, “Dad… I need—I need your help.”