A Star's Hidden Fire (Book One of the Harmony Chronicles) Read online

  A Star's Hidden Fire

  K. Malady

  Copyright © 2022 by K. Malady

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Asheville and the Amanas are both awesome.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Then

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Then

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Then

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Then

  Chapter 22

  FOR MORE

  Chapter 1

  Alec settles in the corner of the rundown house, leaning stiffly against yellowed floral wallpaper. Standing under six feet tall, with a lean figure covered in wiry muscles, he knows the crowd around him finds him handsome. During his first eighteen years of life, deeply set blue eyes on his tawny skin had been unusual. His slightness of frame, different from others in his village, only added to his peculiarity. In the twenty-first century, those same eighteen-year-old features are pleasing.

  He wears his typical ‘uniform’ of black, now updated for the current era. He exchanged the centuries’ old waistcoat and breeches for pants, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. They fit taut against his slender body, the fabric kept pressed and in pristine condition due to lack of use. His raven black hair swoops in front of his face and he shakes it from his vision. More than once his need for order compelled him to cut the offending locks, but they reappear fully grown each morning. His untidy hair, like the permanent scruff on his chin and wiry physique, will remain the same for the entirety of his immortal life.

  The drugged-out desire in the room wafts out like salt from a sea spray. His nose wrinkles as the cloying scent fills his senses. While sex with humans is allowed, he shuns the practice now. It doesn’t help that romancing or engaging them is only allowed if done for an ulterior purpose, and Alec has refused to use humans that way for centuries. Humans should have only one use for his kind—to sate their demand for souls.

  Except the party is a disappointment, overflowing with souls, but none corrupt enough for Alec’s needs. With an inaudible sigh, Alec shifts off the wall, stalking towards the kitchen to find different hunting grounds. He has at most a month before his current stolen soul fades, and the effects could be deadly. Given his hunts typically take several weeks, he has no time to spare for human watching.

  As he wanders past two dull-eyed men, someone shoves a young woman into the kitchen. She looks close to his age, or at least close to the age he was when the years stopped showing on his face. When she spins, she catches his eye and quirks full lips at him before shifting her gaze to the entry she came through.

  A phantom pulse of his heart sounds within his chest. If he were a poetic being, if the romantic part of him survived his creation into a wraith and the trials his long life imposed on him, he would say her visage hit him like a bolt of lightning in a summer storm. But as he repeatedly reminds himself, he isn’t.

  She’s not the loveliest woman at the party or the most well-dressed. Her trousers, a newfangled invention called jeans, are loose and ripped and her olive shirt wrinkled like she arrived directly from bed. Her dark blonde hair adds to the picture, haphazardly pulled into a bun that leaves several locks loose and hanging down near her fawn-colored collarbone. She snarls under her breath at the person who pushed her inside, narrowing her brown eyes and baring crooked teeth from full lips. The pusher says something back, and she slumps her shoulders, stomping past Alec and heading toward the room he left. The other partygoers turn up their noses. Though Alec can’t read their thoughts, as that isn’t the immortal gift he has, their sharp emotions and pinched expressions reveal that they find her off putting.

  That alone might draw him, as outcasts make worthy prey. Alec knows outcasts, having been one himself all those centuries ago. Though he tried, his village found him odd, with his unusual looks, his build too slender to work a metal forge, and his pacifist nature. It was this solitude that seduced Michael two millennia prior. Only the Fates led Michael to turn Alec rather than steal his soul and abandon him to the early grave the people of his time suffered.

  Alec sluices off the memories of his conversion to focus on the young woman who draws his interest. He exhales slowly, centering his mind to use his wraith gifts to discover the measure of her soul. First, he skims her feelings, using the empathic gift he received when Michael converted him. But instead of the barrage of foreign feelings he should find, he hits a wall.

  The phantom pulse in his heart migrates uncomfortably to the pit of his stomach. His skills in reading humans are unmatched, and he’s not had difficulty reading humans since Michael finished training him almost two millennia ago. Alec curls his hands into fists, using the bite of his fingernails in his palms to clear his thoughts again. He tries a second time, gradually unfurling his hands until he finally locks in on her emotions.

  A powerful burst of frustration bursts out. Any other emotions stay hidden, muddled as if behind ice or at the bottom of a well. There are only three reasons her emotions would be shrouded: his fatigue is suppressing his skills, she is something supernatural, or, the most damning option, there is some kind of weakness in his gifts.

  He immediately drowns the thought, reading her soul to avoid the worry, digging deep within her essence. Like finding her emotions, it takes longer than it should, almost as if her soul isn’t where it should be. When he finally finds the secretive soul, he can’t get a deep look at it. It’s as if he’s reading the table of contents of a book rather than the content of the pages. What he can read is spotless, nearly saintlike, better than he’s seen. But even with the shallow read, the metaphorical words on her soul are faint, like dye-tinted water instead of the ink thick color he’d expect.

  Alec releases a soft breath. As he only hunts tainted souls, the honorable shouldn’t hold his focus, no matter that she is the brightest spot of goodness he’s ever encountered. He gazes at her again as he idly spins his amber ring around his finger. The dull gold of the interlocking bands doesn’t gleam in the light, as age and ancient engravings dim them, but the square amber jewel flickers with each spin. He must be tired, explaining both his interest in the woman and his inability to read her. If the woman isn’t prey, there’s no reason his attention should linger. And, with no other potential prey nearby, he has no reason to stay at this cheap imitation of a bacchanal.

  Alec again withdraws to the kitchen and his exit, determined to ask his servant to direct him to some sleazy establishment where he’ll have better luck. As he rounds the doorway and prowls towards the squeaky screen door, a new human catches his senses. A blond man stands by the sink, taking a slow drag from a long-necked amber bottle. The man himself is a perfect example of androgynous allure, tall with tawny skin and strong, lean muscles, as if chiseled f
rom marble. His emotions read as a scuzzy mix of triumphant and entitled. Alec measures his soul and finds it tainted, pockmarked with deceit and depravity Alec hasn’t seen in centuries. It—he falters again. It also appears half hidden, like the woman’s, but her complete opposite, as if the burbling and clotting vileness on the surface conceals the greater infection below.

  The only soul Alec has ever seen similar came from a serial killer the Council had him investigate in London a hundred years ago, when the Council worried the man was a wraith in disguise whose murderous deeds could bring negative attention back to the family. But even that wastrel’s soul wasn’t as rotten as the man in front of him.

  A slow and menacing grin forms on Alec’s lips. Found you.

  The man marked for Alec’s consumption struts towards the living room until he approaches the woman that only seconds ago captivated him. The grin falls from Alec’s face as the newcomer places his hand on the blonde woman’s waist and whispers in her ear. Although she shoves him, Alec senses a superficial form of affection emanate between the pair. His stomach turns.

  This man, this odious human, not only knows the woman but knows her intimately and loves her in what must be a selfish way. Alec almost smiles at the unintended benefit his hunt will give her. His prey never die when Alec steals their souls, but live out their natural lifespan soulless, a husk no longer burdened by human concerns or cravings. An empty human is always better than a monstrous one; she’ll never need to deal with that man’s vileness again.

  Alec stalks towards them, their blond hair a beacon through the haze of smoke. Someone turns on a music box, smaller than the blinking and bright lit contraption he saw on his visit decades prior, and a terrible beat pulses through the room. The open space between him and the couple fills with humans thrusting against each other. Alec’s lips and fists curl in tandem as a boy bumps into him. The twit who jostled him smiles vacantly and offers him a hand-rolled cigarette, slowing Alec’s prowl.

  “I’m here,” the woman mutters to Alec’s prey, her voice smokey and deep like a singer from one of those lounges at which he hunted seventy-odd years ago. Her bust and hips are an example of the pinups from the same period. “Now what?”

  Alec’s prey tosses an arm over her shoulder. The woman flinches before schooling her face back to indifference. “Dear, sweet sister, you know the drill,” the young man answers in a deep baritone.

  Siblings. Alec should have discovered that already. After centuries of practice, Alec can read the emotions in a human and, combined with the human’s mannerisms, translate them into their experiences. He knows the drugged-out boy that stopped him studies something too advanced for him, given his need for a narcotic remedy and the self-doubt reeking the surrounding air. He knows the relationship of the men in the kitchen based on their similar appearances, mannerisms, and the whisper of affection they feel for each other. Desires, hopes, dreams, passions—Alec’s sharp nose uncovers it all. But the siblings refuse to cooperate with his gifts.

  “Now? The semester doesn’t start until Tuesday,” the blonde woman complains, throwing her brother’s arm off her shoulder.

  “′A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds,’” he says, smirking. The siren’s mouth drops open before she clamps it shut.

  “I can’t believe you’re using quotes on me. That’s my thing,” she complains with narrowed eyes. “How the hell do you remember that?”

  “I went to high school, too.” He grabs her wrist as if afraid she will run off if he doesn’t keep ahold of her. “Just look for someone who isn’t a townie loser.”

  “We’re townie losers,” she says, pulling away.

  “No, we’re opportunists who happen to live in town.”

  She rolls her eyes as if this is an oft-repeated argument. “What about him?” ‘Azzie’ drags her eyes from Alec’s hairline to his shoes, a move that would cause him to flush, if he’d been able to do so.

  “He looks international,” is the brother’s terse reply.

  “That’s racist. Maybe he’s been at the beach. Summer did just end.”

  “It’s not racist, it’s practical. How in the hell could I—”

  Alec finally liberates himself from the crowd, interrupting the annoyed discussion between the siblings. He considers bowing, before remembering the action fell out of favor. “I am Alec Gravely,” he announces.

  The two stare silently for a moment, faces blank. He’s about to peek back at their emotions to find out what he’s done wrong when his prey finally speaks.

  “I’m Eli, and this is Azalea,” he says, jutting a thumb in Azalea’s direction.

  A sharp flush appears on Azalea’s cheeks. His eyes stray from her crooked smile to her bright eyes. “I go by Azzie. As my brother should know, I’m not a huge fan of my actual name.”

  “Azalea, meaning flower. Given to symbolize softness and feminine beauty,” Alec murmurs, remembering Michael’s attempt to bed both the eligible and ineligible women in England during Victorian times, using the language of the flowers to send them raunchy notes. Michael never sent an azalea to any of his swains. Alec spent a month berating Michael for flouting the Rules before Michael sent him a bouquet of dead leaves.

  Her blush intensifies while Eli snorts. “Right, when I think softness and femininity, I think Az.”

  “I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” Alec says sharply. He vows to steal Eli’s soul at once and ensconce him underground somewhere for the wraith-like justice normally reserved for the lesser orders. Though Alec rarely employs those tactics anymore, more concerned with Rule breaking than retribution, something about the siblings creates the craving. He wants to wrap Azalea in silk and protect her from monsters in human form, like her brother.

  Considering he’s a monster in human form too, it’s a confusing desire.

  The siblings share a look at Alec’s pronouncement that has Azalea grinning. “So where are you from?”

  “Abroad.”

  Eli smirks and jabs an elbow at Azalea.

  “My family has an old property here. I’ll remain there for the few weeks I’m visiting Asheville,” Alec finishes.

  “Which one?” Azalea asks, elbowing the brother back.

  “Rockton House.”

  One of Alec’s long-term plans was to set up in Asheville years prior. The ‘Gravelys,’ a solitary family of his creation, purchased the house and land surrounding a century and a half earlier when Asheville was still ‘Morristown.’ Local history, with some clever stories spread by Alec’s servants, tells that the Rockton House, a two story five bay structure more akin to a fortress than a family home, had been in the so-called Gravelys’ and their descendants’ names ever since. Years of rumors took root, making it a local landmark.

  Azalea’s eyes gleam while the brother’s narrow. “No way,” they say in tandem.

  Alec nods, to cover his fumbling understanding of the phrasing. “Yes… way.”

  “Isn’t that place haunted?” Azalea asks.

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” Alec says, one corner of his lips tilting upward, as he is the only supernatural entity sculking around Rockton. “But I will keep my eye out.”

  “You should have a party before you leave and show off the place,” Eli says, an unsettling glint in his eye. His rotten core must be in his demeanor, as someone with a soul worse than a serial killer couldn’t be freely roaming the streets of this small town. He doesn’t look smart enough to hide his crimes from the authorities.

  “That would be really cool,” Azalea agrees, a similar glint echoing in her eyes. There’s no denying their familial relationship then.

  Alec had purposely seen little of the human realm this century. His time here must focus on fulfilling the obligations to his kind: sustaining himself through the capture of souls and ensuring Rule breaking wraiths don’t corrupt the species. Those wraiths are as worthless as the lesser orders.

  But he knows his own limitations. Past preoccupations with humans cost him, and after se
veral violent punishments from the Council, he’s learned. But if it gets him closer to his prey, perhaps the idea has merit. He glances between the beguiling Azalea and Eli.

  “I appreciate the chance to meet my neighbors,” he finally says.

  “Eli, I bet Benji’s lighting up in the backyard.” Azalea doesn’t look away from Alec while she speaks. Radiating something that smells like greed, Eli’s cheeks dimple and he saunters away.

  When the two are alone, Azalea’s gaze sharpens. “What brings you to Asheville?”

  “It was time for a brief sojourn back to my roots. I missed the comforts of home,” he lies. His eyes don’t follow Eli’s departure, but they should. Azalea shouldn’t to hold his interest, but she does. “Have you been in Asheville long?”

  “All my life.” Her eyes twitch. “Except we’re technically in Lonetree now.”

  “Your correction is appreciated.”

  “You talk like you’re straight out of the 1800s,” she says, laughing. Alec’s lip curls again in response to her smile.

  “Private tutors,” he explains, hoping the lie covers any gaffe in his speech patterns. It’s a smaller deception than she’ll ever know, given his history with the language.

  “Fair point,” she says, twisting her lips. “But why didn’t you go to school here? I’m pretty sure you didn’t, since I went to the fancy school in your neck of the woods until middle school.” She studies him closely. “I’m sure I’d have remembered you.”

  He doesn’t answer, instead running his eyes over the attendees once again. Her beguiling voice and innocent eyes make him want. But it’s a mistake to divert from his purpose by speaking with this blonde nymph when the brother is elsewhere. The amber jewel in his ring flickers as if in agreement.

  Azalea’s voice draws his attention back to her. “You there, Alec? I’m not sure how it’s done abroad, but here it’s rude to ignore someone when they’re talking to you.”

  The words sound annoyed, but it’s deep amusement that wafts off her. He can’t understand it—he’s off-kilter, and it’s her fault. To protect himself from pulling her to him and smelling her hair, he counters, “Is it not also rude to accost new acquaintances with questions?”