Saving Marigold: Lick of Fire

  SAVING MARIGOLD

  Lick of Fire // Fiery Blooms

  Kallysten

  His fated mate is trapped in her own mind. Can he reach her before her dragon destroys their world?

  Chris is free at last.

  In Sanctuary, he can be who he is – a telepath – without hiding his powers.

  Marigold is free too… in theory.

  After years of abuse, she found refuge in her own mind and remains in a comatose state.

  Sanctuary’s leadership asks Chris to help Marigold, but entering her mind without her consent is not something he’s keen to do.

  Soon, he realizes they are mates, fated to be together His telepathic powers could be the perfect tool to help her.

  But if he fails to figure out how to reach her before her dragon breaks free, Sanctuary may be in danger…

  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

  Saving Marigold

  Offer

  Lick of Fire Collection // Fiery Blooms Series

  Excerpt

  Other stories

  About the author

  SAVING MARIGOLD

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chris had been locked up for eight months, two weeks and three days.

  It felt like an eternity and half.

  But it looked like it would all end today.

  Being jailed for no other reason that he’d been born with a paranormal power was bad enough. Being experimented on—not that Chris could figure out what MRIs, blood panels and other assorted medical tests might possibly reveal about him when they hadn’t revealed anything about paras for the past ten years—made the situation worse. But for him, for his particular brand of power, it was the lack of physical contact that made everything unbearable.

  He was what was commonly known as a telepath. He could read others’ thoughts, could project his own toward them for silent conversations. He could also use his power to extract secrets people wished to keep to themselves, or impose his own ideas on them until they were utterly convinced they had thought whatever it was on their own. These last two things were the reason Chris was always ever so careful when he entered someone’s mind.

  He’d found out about this aspect of his power very much by accident, and had at once been disgusted. He was not deluding himself about it, this kind of power was a rape of the mind. It had been years since he’d done more than brush the surface of someone’s mind, and then always with their consent.

  It had always been his favorite way to communicate; spoken words seemed much too slow and inaccurate when with one thought he could express exactly what he believed or felt. For that, he required physical contact: holding someone’s hand or arm, even just brushing his fingers against someone for the time of a single thought. All he needed was to touch bare skin.

  But for eight months, one week and six days, he hadn’t been allowed to touch anyone. It had taken his captors a few days to understand how his power worked exactly, and from that moment on they’d been very careful to prevent him from touching any of them. A smart move, because Chris had fully intended to seize the best opportunity to ‘convince’ one of his jailers to let him out. Twice, he’d hesitated when one of the soldiers had touched his bare skin but others were around. He’d greatly regretted those hesitations since.

  He couldn’t touch any of his fellow prisoners either. He could see a handful of them across the hallway through the bars that made up the front of their cells, but the cells on either side of his were too far for him to touch anyone. Even speaking to the other paras was tricky; some of the guards tolerated whispered conversations, while others demanded complete silence under threat of punishment. The woman directly across from him had been deprived of food several times because she’d been caught trying to communicate with someone further down the row of cells.

  But all this was coming to an end.

  It started with strange sounds, half a dozen muffled pangs, only audible because the hallways were so quiet. Then came the voices and footsteps, all but drowned out by the blaring alarm. The familiar sharp ‘beeps’ when the main gates were opened. And then voices expressing thanks, while other voices gave clipped orders and softer encouragements.

  By then, Chris was pressed to the bars of his cell, looking out into the corridor as best as he could. A woman was opening each cell in turns. She wore a guard uniform, but Chris had never seen her before. Just before reaching his cell, she stopped, her expression turning thunderous as she looked back to the other end of the corridor. Chris’ heart started beating faster as he suddenly worried she might not free him, for whatever reason.

  But already someone else was passing by her, and this was a guard Chris knew. He’d been a downright asshole from the time Chris had been brought to this jail, but something had changed two or three months ago. He’d stopped mocking and taunting the prisoners, stopped talking much at all, in fact, and whenever it was his turn to distribute food or get Chris to his ‘doctor appointments,’ he’d never meet his eyes anymore. Chris could almost have believed he felt ashamed of what he was doing.

  And maybe he really had been ashamed of his job, because he now used his electronic card key to unlock Chris’ cell before gesturing for him to come out.

  “Quickly,” he said. “Go up the corridor and all the way to the—”

  Gunshots drowned out the rest of his words. The woman who hadn’t quite come up to Chris’ cell rushed back up the corridor along with a couple of black-clad people. Where the corridor met the main hallway, they stopped, remaining under cover of the wall before taking turns at shooting down the hallway. Meanwhile, the guard was freeing the last couple of prisoners down this corridor, ordering them out of their cells but keeping them away from where the fighting was happening.

  Soon, the shots stopped. The same woman barked out a few orders. Chris followed his fellow prisoners up the corridor and to a freight elevator—ex-prisoners, now, or at least soon. They passed by several dead bodies, all wearing guard uniforms except for one in a doctor’s lab coat. Chris didn’t bother trying to look at their faces.

  With his ragged tee-shirt leaving his arms exposed, and almost a dozen people crowding the elevator in the same state of dress, skin to skin contact was unavoidable. For seconds at a time, he got glimpses into minds that were as confused and as hopeful as he himself felt. No one whose mind he brushed seemed to have any prior knowledge of this break-out, but everyone felt both relief and gratitude toward the black-clad soldiers now guiding them out of the elevator and into a van waiting in the parking garage.

  Chris didn’t know if they really were soldiers, but they certainly moved with the same efficiency and order he’d have expected from military troops. The back of the van was soon crowded, freed men and women crammed onto narrow benches and looking at each other with disbelief and relief. The back doors closed. Someone banged twice on the side of the van. The engine came to life and they started forward. Someone whooped, and the r
est of them let out nervous laughs.

  “Welcome back to freedom,” one of the soldiers standing near the door said, casting his smile toward them all. “We’re taking you to our headquarters, then we’ll break into small groups and disperse throughout the city before getting you all out of here within the next few days. We’ll take you to a safe place where you can rest, heal, contact your loved ones, and decide what you want to do next.”

  As words of gratitude and joy rose all around, Chris half-closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the van behind him. The arm of the woman on his right was bare, and pressed against his own. He didn’t try to talk to her, neither in words nor mentally, but he didn’t try either to stop listening to the thoughts flowing at the surface of her mind.

  She knew these soldiers, he realized. She was one of them, a member of the ‘squad,’ but she’d been taken. She’d known they would come for her, and her gratitude was as deep as her relief to be out of that jail.

  At a bump in the road, her arm moved against his own, and she soon broke contact by leaning forward and clasping her hands in front of her. Chris missed the touch at once, but he didn’t try to initiate it again. He had no right to these innocent glimpses into her mind, even if they’d finished to reassure him as to whether they truly were safe now. No right at all to share mindspace with someone who didn’t even know he could hear her thoughts… but damn, how much he’d missed those fleeting connections…

  He lost track of time as the van continued on. Some people were talking with one another, others looked shell-shocked and were being comforted by their seatmates, but Chris kept silent, needing some time to think. Over the past eight months, he hadn’t tried to imagine what he’d do once he was out of jail—if he ever came out alive.

  Returning to teaching social studies to middle-schoolers wasn’t an option, not now that he’d been found out as a para. As to how he’d been found out… he couldn’t be completely sure, but he suspected one of his colleagues. Another reason not to go back to his school. The prospect of starting his life over wasn’t one he particularly relished, but given the alternative of being stuck in that jail for who knew how much longer, he’d take it.

  The van finally slowed down, and stopped completely. The back doors opened, and they all started climbing out into what looked like a basement garage. Chris looked around, trying to orient himself, unsure what came next. The ex-prisoners around him looked just as uncertain.

  He recognized most of them, having seen them as he was being taken to and from his cell, or as they were being marched in front of his. A couple looked unfamiliar; maybe they’d been in a different part of the building, or they hadn’t been there long enough for Chris to notice them. Lucky them, if that was the case, to be freed so quickly. And that man standing still over there looked just like—

  Chris blinked, taking in the man’s appearance again. Tall, too thin like most people here, wearing no more than ragged shorts, his hair a fuzzy brown shadow rather than the spiked cut Chris would have expected… Their eyes met, and all doubts disappeared. The man now coming toward him had changed, but it was Idris—it was his brother.

  Chris met him halfway, already offering him his forearm to clasp. Idris didn’t hesitate, and drew him into a hug.

  After months of mental silence and no physical contact, Chris immediately found himself babbling at his younger brother.

  Fuck, you were in that jail too? How long were you there? Are you all right? Did they hurt you? Where were you taken? Mom and Dad must be going crazy with both of us taken by those fuckers.

  The entire tirade took no more than a second to communicate to Idris, who chuckled quietly. The sound was a little rough, as though he didn’t quite remember how to laugh.

  Slow down, man. I can never follow you when you’re thinking that fast.

  Chris hugged him a little tighter, an apology of sorts as he tried to calm down his thoughts. First things first…

  Are you okay?

  Idris pulled back, though he continued to hold on to Chris’ arm.

  Yeah, I’m all right. Nothing that a few good meals and a comfortable bed can’t cure. You?

  The same, pretty much. It’s been years since we heard from you. Have you been in that jail all that time?

  Idris smiled, but his eyes seemed dull.

  Nah, just a few months.

  Then why did you go silent on us? Mom was terrified something might have happened to you. Dad didn’t say much, but I know he was worried too.

  Idris shrugged and looked away, no longer smiling.

  There wasn’t much to say, that’s all. And I didn’t want them to ask me to come home again.

  He didn’t consciously think “I didn’t want to risk burning down their home again” but it was at the back of his mind, badly hidden behind layers and layers of guilt.

  Chris let out an audible sigh.

  Come on, man. It’s been years since you’ve had an incident, hasn’t it?

  When Idris didn’t respond, Chris was tempted to look for the answer himself—but no, he couldn’t do that, not even to someone who knew what he could do and knew how to shield his thoughts if that was what he wanted.

  Listen, Idris thought toward him instead, I’m glad I’ve seen you, and you can tell Mom and Dad I’m fine, okay? I want to get out of here while they’re all busy listening to those two shout at each other.

  He tilted his head toward the two women who’d been arguing for the past few moments. Chris tightened his hand on his wrist to stop him from running off right away.

  Why don’t you stay a bit? They said they’re taking us to a safe place. Don’t you want to live without looking back every few steps to see if the UIPP is behind you?

  Appealing, but not as much as revenge. I’ve got some counts to settle with the people who sold me out. But I’ll see you again, all right? You take care of yourself, Brother.

  Another hug, briefer this time, and Idris walked away before Chris could ask him how exactly they’d find each other when he was running off yet again without saying where he was going. As he watched him get onto a bike and take off with a roar of the engine, a wave of sadness engulfed him. Idris had been running for years, and it didn’t look like he was ready to stop.

  Raised voices behind him brought him back to the here and now—or rather, one single word in that continued argument between the two women.

  Violet.

  The older of the two women had called the other one Violet.

  And Violet was now striding toward the open door of the garage, looking like she meant to go after Idris on foot if she needed to.

  Could it be…

  Chris caught up with her, grasping her forearm and holding on when she tried to free herself. He watched her face closely, still wondering if she might be the Violet he thought she was. A look at her wrist would have told him if she was, but her mate tattoo was covered by her sleeve. And yet, he could already hear her thoughts in his mind, as though he was touching her skin. He didn’t stop to wonder at this oddity and asked, Your name is Violet? Is that right?

  He could tell at once that she’d dealt with telepaths before. Most people were surprised to hear someone speak inside their heads, but she responded with focused words at the mental volume equivalent of a shout.

  Let go of me.

  Months of silence, and now shouting… Chris winced at the unpleasantness, but it would take more than that to make him give up right now. It was too important.

  He asked her again if she was Violet, and his insistence must have given her an idea of why he was so intent on finding out. Close, but not quite, and he answered her question before she could ask, turning his arm so she could read the name on his wrist. Not her name, but Marigold. Again, he could hear the beginning of disappointment and confusion before she could express it, and explained himself.

  Because my brother’s tattoo says ‘Violet.’ Can I see yours?

  She tried to demure, both afraid and excited, he thought, at the idea that
he might point her toward her mate—but definitely more excited than afraid. That was good. Idris was afraid enough for the two of them, if he turned out to be her mate.

  Her sleeve retracted, it seemed, of its own accord. He didn’t know what kind of power she had, but it appeared he’d been touching her rather than clothing all along. He blinked as he took in the elegant letters traced in black ink on her skin. No one knew where the mate tattoos came from, appearing right at birth and lasting a lifetime without fading, but everyone knew what they meant.

  There was a man on this Earth who wore Violet’s name on his wrist, the same way she wore his. And Chris knew exactly who that man was, because he’d seen Violet’s name on his brother’s skin since he’d been born.

  He beamed at her as he projected toward her the thought, Can I call you ‘little sister’?

  A storm seemed to take over her mind, but the tears filling up her eyes were happy ones, he was sure of it.

  “Where is he?” she said aloud, her words shaking a little. “Where can I find him?”

  If only Idris hadn’t run out of here… Or had he run precisely because he’d somehow heard this woman’s name before Chris did?

  Yeah, about that. That man who just stole a bike? That was Idris.

  If her mind had been agitated until now, it only became worse as images of Idris flooded her thoughts—images of him as she’d seen him in that God forsaken jail, and images of what she imagined he was like beneath what little clothing he wore.

  Right. Time to get out of her head.

  He released her arm and tried to hide his grin, though judging by the way she blushed she must have realized what he’d just seen in her mind.

  “Sorry,” he said aloud. “I didn’t mean to hear that. My name’s Chris, since you were wondering. And there’s something you should know about Idris. He doesn’t want a mate. He’ll try to run from you.” He paused briefly, feeling a twinge of guilt at what Idris might see as a betrayal. “Please don’t let him.”