Fire and Bone (Otherborn #1)(3)
I’m not really sure why Ziggy puts up with me.
I’m broken, mostly because of the broken woman who spawned me. I swear, adults should have to get a license to make a kid. Prove they’ve got their shit together before they bring a child into the world. My mom tried, I think. She thought she could piece herself into something resembling a mother by dropping the drugs and dropping the need to feed her overblown selfish streak. But she failed. And so, at age ten, I was released from her forever. I bounced around foster care until it eventually became a blur of angry kids and overworked caregivers. The only place I felt safe was in my own head, where the sneers and fists could be ignored—I must’ve read a thousand books the first year or two. In the pages of the stories, I could catch killers or kill monsters. My favorites were the legends with angry gods, cursed kings, or castles in the murky fog. Not the romance novels—hell, no. I liked the novels that ended in blood-soaked battlefields best. Which is ironic, I guess, considering I’ve become a master at conflict avoidance. My default mode is: leave if things get too tense.
I make it on my own now. And while life’s gotten more difficult in some ways, it’s also much more peaceful. I can sit on the beach and read all day if I want. I can walk for miles and still be home. I’m not tied to anyone or anything. I’m free. I turned eighteen last month, so I could choose to get aid now, or job training, maybe go back to school, but the system can kiss my ass. If I’m going to figure my life out, it won’t be under some social worker’s microscope. I’m done with being a name on a file.
I get out of the shower and dry off, then fold the towel, placing it exactly how it was before I used it. I look at my pile of dirty clothes on the floor and sigh. I don’t want to put those stiff things back on. There’s a robe on the back of the door, so I grab it and slip into it, then walk into the bedroom. It drags behind me, way too big for my shrunken frame. The noises of the party seem louder now, but I don’t hear anyone in the hallway. I check the closet for clothes and spot a couple of things that might work; there’s a white cotton button-up on a hanger and a pair of jeans in a stack of folded pants on the shelf above it. Maybe I could wear them for now. I’m so tired. And I’m dying to have clean clothes on for a second. I’ll put my own stuff on again before I leave.
The jeans are too big so I roll them at the waist, then find socks and a wifebeater in what looks like a small laundry basket. I put them on and slide the white dress shirt over the tank. I gather my dirty clothes and throw them into the basket, then shuffle over to the bed and plop down onto the heavenly mattress. I lean back on a pile of pillows so comfortable and soft, I can’t keep my eyes open.
I breathe deeply, and sleep pulls me under.
Wings rustle as he enters the stone room. The flames in the hearth behind me crackle as I take in the sight of him. At last I see him with my own eyes. My fate.
The King of Ravens.
His black hair is flecked with gold from the firelight, and his shadowed gaze glints with silver. The inking of a black raven is etched over his bare skin. It wraps around the muscles of his broad shoulders and covers his right arm. On his head he wears a silver laurel. Around his neck is the heavy iron torque that holds back his immense power.
He grips the body of a limp winter fox in one fist and a bloody dagger in the other. The white body drips crimson onto the stone floor as the king steps closer to me. I can’t look away from the rare fox, its beauty snuffed out by those beastly hands. That will be me very soon if I’m not cautious.
But even in my fear, I stand firm. I cannot cower from him. In spite of all I’ve done, I’m no craven thing. He is my punishment, my eternal cage. Because of what happened in the arms of the trees . . .
No. I can’t let myself think of the human boy I burned in the wood. How with a kiss I pulled life from him until there was nothing left. I was a fool to think I could control it on my own. I deserve punishment. This dark beast’s coldness is what I have earned.
The Cast’s envoy stands in the corner, watching my first exchange with the king. He’s a thin man, a bit hunched in his heavy furs, balding. Not what I expected from the representative of the powerful Cast of Seven, who live in the Otherworld, lording over all of us demis for their maker, the mother goddess, Danu. I would think the Cast would send someone more daunting in size to oversee the initial introduction of this match that they’ve allowed my mother and the Morrígan to draft.
This is the first time the Cast has permitted a Bond between two Houses, two bloodlines, two separate, very different powers: fire and spirit. Somehow the mistake I made warrants a complete shift in the order just to control me. And so the King of Ravens is my doom.
There is no escape once the vows of the Bond are sealed at the next new moon and I’ve given myself over fully. This beast is far more powerful than I am. He’ll surely eat away at my soul, my powers, a little at a time, until all that’s left of me is a mindless shell.
Like the charcoal bones of the boy I killed.
I still see the horror of that day when I close my eyes. The hollow skull smoking on the mossy ground of the forest, the embers of my youthful foolishness.
The king steps closer and drops the body of the fox at my feet. Its golden eyes are glazed over with death, and it wears a glistening ring of blood around its throat.
“For you,” the king says, his voice prickling over my skin. “An offering for my future Bonded, the Daughter of Fire.”