Burning Violet_Lick of Fire Read online

  BURNING VIOLET

  Lick of Fire // Fiery Blooms

  Kallysten

  No love burns hotter than a pyromancer’s…

  For five months, Idris has languished in a government detention center for paras—people with paranormal abilities. No more. He’d rather die trying to escape than spend one more day in this hell. Today, he’s getting out, and he’ll set anyone who stands in his way on fire.

  It was just another mission for Violet: help her squad free paras from unjust imprisonment and get them safely to Sanctuary. However, when she’s caught between her captain’s orders and the sudden realization that one of these prisoners might be her mate, this phoenix needs to choose between duty and destiny.

  On the run from the authorities, Idris only has one thing in mind: revenge. He doesn’t mind that Violet insists on accompanying him, though… after all, he’s been celibate for far too long. But when he realizes why she’s so interested in him, he can’t run away fast enough. Even running into danger on his own is preferable to yielding to love...

  Copyright © 2018 Kallysten

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The right of Kallysten to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First Published 2018

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Kristin W.

  CONTENTS

  Burning Violet

  Offer

  Lick of Fire Collection // Fiery Blooms Series

  Excerpt

  Other series

  About the author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lying on the bare floor of his cell, the prisoner known as James Watson stared at his hand, raised in front of him. A tiny flame, smaller even than his thumbnail, jumped from fingertip to fingertip in an endless loop.

  Such a small flame, with so little heat… It was all he dared to conjure up right now. The fire comforted him, a familiar presence even in this hellhole, enemy and ally all at once, but he had to save up whatever strength he had left. It had been five months already—maybe more. It was hard to keep track of time in a windowless cube that wasn’t any larger than eight feet in any direction. Even when they took him out of his cell, he never saw the light of day.

  They thought they could break him.

  They piped screeching music into his cell at all times of the day or night, sometimes for just a few moments, sometimes for hours. They kept the temperature well below what any normal person could endure. They restricted his access to food and water to the bare minimum he needed to subsist. They’d removed the toilet, leaving only a gaping hole for him to use, the gag-inducing smell of which permeated everything. They hosed the whole room down with frigid water whenever they felt like he needed a wash. He was still frozen down to his bones from the last time, earlier today.

  They thought that if they submitted him to these forms of torture along with all the other ones, small and not so small, his resolve would finally snap and he’d agree to cooperate for their experiments. They still tried to study him against his will; it rarely lasted very long. In this bare room, there wasn’t much he could do, but out of it, he could always find something to set on fire. He’d tried to escape twice already. He’d try again and again until he succeeded.

  It would be easier for all concerned if they just killed him, but they refused to concede defeat to a ‘para.’ They still believed he, and all the others like him, could be cured—believed it was a sickness to be different. Believed if they didn’t act now, soon the entire world would be taken over by ‘freaks.’

  They knew nothing—not even his name.

  Every time one of the guards banged on the metal door and called out, “James Watson. Hands to the wall, resident,” he allowed himself an inward snicker. He’d long ago ceased being amused that they called their prisoners ‘residents,’ as though this were some artist colony on the coast. But he’d never stop relishing the knowledge that, for all their resources, they still didn’t know his real identity.

  His name was Idris Serden, although he hadn’t used it for years even before he’d been taken, right off the street. It was too dangerous in regard to his family, and too dangerous in regard to his mate. With a name as distinctive as his, his family might be found and used as leverage against him. As for his mate…

  He rubbed the small flame tipping his index finger over the singed patch of skin on his wrist, the way he always did when the thought of his mate popped into his mind. Every time his skin healed enough that the letters were almost readable, he burned it again, and made sure no one would be able to read what name was tattooed there. He never wanted to meet her. Fated or not, she deserved better than what he could offer her. And whoever she was, she didn’t deserve to be used as a weapon against him. No one deserved that.

  Three heavy bangs on the metal door echoed through his cell, reverberating against the cement walls. The small opening at the bottom clanked open. Idris pushed himself to a seating position in time to see the opening close again, leaving behind the metal tray that bore his meal for the day. He forced himself to count to fifteen silently before he reached for the tray. He was no dog; no bells or banging would dictate his reactions.

  The best that could be said about the chunk of bread was that this time it wasn’t moldy. He left it alone for now. The cup of soup would have been little distinguishable from clear water if not for a few unidentifiable bits of vegetables at the bottom. It was, as always, stone cold—but that at least was something Idris could remedy.

  He held the metal goblet in both his hands, closing his eyes to slits to focus. The flames that rose from his skin to lick at the goblet weren’t any larger than the one that had danced from his fingers, but little by little they warmed up the soup until thin volutes were rising from the surface, carrying a very faint smell of broth. The fire didn’t burn his hands; only if he deliberately focused his will, like when he burned off the tattoo, could he hurt himself.

  Carefully bringing the hot cup to his lips, Idris did nothing more than inhale for a few seconds before he finally took a small gulp, then a second, not so small one. One last gulp, and the goblet was empty. He kept that last mouthful on his tongue for a long moment, swishing it around his mouth to get every last bit of flavor he could. Hardly good manners, but being polite had long ceased being anywhere at all on his list of priorities. Said list, actually, only contained one item right now: escape.

  Escape first, whatever it took. Revenge would come later.

  With regret, he swallowed the broth. Now barely lukewarm, it nonetheless felt heavenly sliding down his throat. The bread was next, the fist-sized chunk torn into small pieces that he masticated one at a time until there was nothing left to chew.

  When he was done with his meal, he felt even hungrier than before he’d started eating, his stomach twisting as though to demand more. Lying down on the floor again, this time with his head close to the door, he listened intently for sounds in the corridor. He could identify several of the guards by their stride, or the way they ran their batons against the walls and doors as they patrolled the hallway.

  There were always two rounds between the delivery of the meal and the retrieval of the trays. The first round, tod
ay, was from the guard Idris had nicknamed Gimpy for his slight limp, which meant that, after the second round—today by Heavy who trudged through the corridor as though carrying three men on his back—Gimpy would be the one retrieving the trays.

  Good. Idris had payback to dish out toward Gimpy, who’d deliberately knocked over Idris’ goblet of soup the last time he’d served meals. Judging by the shouts and angry banging on a door somewhere on the right on that day, he’d done the same for at least one other prisoner as well, probably both of them.

  Idris knew their names, or at least what the guards called them, but nothing else. They’d both been brought in after him and he’d never seen either of them, although he’d heard shouting at times as someone was being dragged or wheeled down the corridor. Late at night, when everything was quiet, he could hear crying. He was almost certain that was a child, or at least someone younger than his twenty-five years of age. When he escaped, if he could manage it, he’d try to spring them. They might have powers that would be helpful. If nothing else, the added confusion might give him a better chance.

  Idly resting a hand on the metal tray, Idris continued to listen as he focused. In the beginning they’d tried giving him a plastic tray and goblet. He’d set both of them on fire right as the guard retrieved them, causing little damage but creating noxious fumes that had triggered the fire alarm—but that hadn’t prompted the guard to open his door, unfortunately. Squeaky, named for his shoes, had been the wrong person to attack, although at the time Idris didn’t know the guards well enough to realize that much. They’d switched his tray to metal after that, and Idris had decided to be smarter and start planning rather than cause chaos for the sake of it.

  He’d studied the guards, figuring out which one might be more prone to a strong reaction. He’d learned to identify them by sound. He’d counted their steps as best as he could, trying to guess how long the corridor was—a hundred yards by his best estimate. He’d counted the bangs on doors to know how many prisoners were around him—one on the right, one on the left, although he thought there were multiple empty cells on both sides. There used to be a woman on his left, but he hadn’t heard her in weeks.

  He’d heard a guard complain to a colleague about the old-fashioned metal keys they had to use on this floor, because one of the prisoners could manipulate electronic systems at will—which meant Idris might have to lose a few moments finding the right keys to open cells, but if he found the right prisoner his way out was assured.

  He’d waited long enough. He’d gathered as much information as he could from this side of the door. He had to try his luck, and even if he failed he’d have a better idea of the obstacles in his way.

  Gimpy was coming, his steps recognizable even behind the sound of the wheels from the carrier on which he set the trays.

  Idris was ready.

  The opening clanked. With a small hook, Gimpy pulled the tray out and closed the opening again. The hook was so he didn’t have to reach in and risk a prisoner grabbing his wrist. But once the tray was safely out, he picked it up with his bare hand and—

  A yell of pain permeated through the heavy door, as loud as though Gimpy had been right inside the cell.

  “Son of a bitch! The bastard burned me! Can you believe that?”

  Idris frowned. He hadn’t heard another guard. Were they close? Close enough to intervene when Gimpy’s anger made him reach for the door and—

  The jangling of keys. Metal rasping against metal. Idris scrambled to his feet and wiped his palms against the torn shorts that were his only clothing. Non-combustible, of course. But the guards wore regular fabric—Idris was almost certain of it. And when Gimpy appeared behind the opening door, his taser already buzzing with electricity in his right hand and fury in his eyes, Idris was ready.

  He’d watched countless old westerns with his dad and brother when he was just a kid. In many of them, the whole plot boiled down to one moment, one confrontation: the hero and the villain, face-to-face, hands on their weapons, ready to draw and shoot. It was a contest of speed as well as accuracy.

  Idris had both.

  He didn’t know if he was the villain or the hero here. Unlike the guards, he’d never kidnapped or tortured anyone, but he was hardly a saint. Either way, no one deserved to be treated like this.

  Before the door had finished swinging open, he threw his empty hands toward Gimpy, hurling the power he’d been gathering for the past few minutes. A ball of fire as wide as Gimpy’s torso flew at him, so bright it drained him of all colors—or that might have been his fear. He didn’t have time to react in any way, not even to stumble back or shout. Already the fire was engulfing him, setting his clothing ablaze. He screamed and dropped the taser to beat at the flames with both hands. Steps were resounding down the corridors, calls for help—and the alarm, already.

  Damn it. Idris had hoped to have at least a few moments before the alarm went off. No doubt it’d summon every guard in the building. He’d have to leave the other prisoners to their fate and try his luck on his own.

  He rushed out of his cell, wrenching the ring of keys out of the lock on the way. He picked up the taser on the floor, giving no more than a contemptuous look to Gimpy, who was now rolling back and forth on the sickly green tiles. His screams were easier to ignore than the stench of burning flesh and hair.

  Bet he’d like to be on the receiving end of that hose now, Idris thought with vicious satisfaction.

  The other guard, Heavy, was on the left, rushing forward while trying to figure out how to operate the fire extinguisher he held. Idris ran to the right, past two heavy doors. A poor bastard was calling out from the second one, banging on the metal. Steven Johnson, the guards called him. Idris gritted his teeth and continued onward. A door made of metal bars blocked the way. In those westerns from his childhood, the town’s jail always had bars like these.

  Idris shoved the taser behind the waistband of his shorts and fumbled with the keys. There were six of them on the ring, five that were very similar, like the one that had opened his cell, and a larger, heavier one. That had to be it.

  Glancing back just long enough to see Heavy smother Gimpy with thick white foam, Idris pushed the large key into the lock—or at least tried to. With adrenaline rushing through him, his hands were shaking so hard he had to try a couple of times before the key finally slid in. He turned it with a wordless cry, threw the door open, and stopped dead in his tracks.

  A woman had just appeared past a door in the corridor ahead of him. She held a gun with both hands and looked in his direction with dark eyes so cold they seemed dead. The only way he could tell she was a woman was from the generous curves of her breasts and her hourglass figure. She was clothed entirely in black, from the heavy boots on her feet to a black catsuit that hugged her body to the face mask that covered her hair and features, exposing no more than her eyes.

  She didn’t look like a guard, and that was why Idris was slow to react. With just a second’s warning, he could have blasted her the way he had Gimpy, but already her gun was pointed in his direction, already she was barking, “Down!”

  She fired before he could obey.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Forty-five minutes earlier

  The three oversized screens on the wall each showed the blueprint of one floor of the containment center. Millie, the leader of the squad, stood at the back of the room behind everyone else and pointed at the screens with a green pinpoint laser, following the path even as she explained it—again. Slouching in a seat in the front row, Violet did her best to refrain from tapping her booted foot on the linoleum floor.

  They’d gone through this briefing three times in the past week already, in addition to individual briefings. Being prepared was good and well, but everyone knew the plan would change at the moment of first contact with the enemy. It always did. So what was the point?

  “The point of this briefing,” Millie said, raising her voice a little, “is that the plan changed. So please pay attention.”
>
  Violet didn’t turn toward her, didn’t move to acknowledge in any way that the words might have been directed at her, but she thought as strongly as she could, Butt out of my head.

  Honestly, telepaths were a pain in the ass.

  “We’ve received more intel about the lowest level,” Millie went on, her voice back to its neutral tone. The green dot of her pointer circled the third screen broadly. “There are only three prisoners kept there at the moment, and from what we know, all three of them are unstable and a danger to both themselves and others. Depending on how quickly we evacuate the middle floor and how much resistance we encounter, it might not be worth it to go down to the lowest level.”

  This time, Violet did turn around so Millie would see her frown, and she voiced her protest aloud for all members of the squad to hear.

  “It’s not worth it to get every para out of that place? You can’t seriously mean that.”

  Millie’s face remained impassible, although she corrected herself.

  “I should have said, it might be too dangerous. There are twelve paras on the first level of containment, including two of our own. These are our priority. If the opportunity presents itself, we’ll grab the other three as well. But if it’s a choice between risking the entire operation or leaving behind three paras about whom all we know is that they’re unstable… then yes. I seriously mean that we’ll put the needs of the many over the needs of the few. Anyone who has a problem with that can stay at headquarters and write a memo about their objections. Are we clear?”

  The dozen or so people in the room all made murmurs of assent—including Violet. The hell if she was going to be left behind, even if she disagreed. All she had to do was keep her thoughts quiet in her own mind so Millie wouldn’t pick up on them. No doubt she’d only noticed Violet’s boredom earlier because it was so pronounced. In a room this full, she usually couldn’t focus on anyone in particular.