Chapter 1: Chapter 1

FOREWORD

COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER : this book belongs to Stacey Willis. 'Daughter of Fire' is a fully published book, and NovelNow is the only online reading platform where you can find a complete version of it ( not just a sample ). If you are reading this somewhere that is not NovelNow or its associates, it is not with legal permission from the author.

✠

THE DAUGHTER OF FIRE SAGA

Daughter of Fire

Son of Death

Mark of Kóri

Heir of Bones

OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES

Reaper of Gods

Tempting of Fate

✠

PRONUNCIATIONS

Luc: Loose

Søren: as it is in Norwegian, as Seuh-ren

Sør: Soar

Thanatos: Than-a-tos

Pruinae: Prue-ee-neh

Horkos: Hore-kos

Págos: Pah-goh-ss

Sych: Sick

Kóri: Core-ree

✠

Fate is like a string that

ties all of us together.

Someone else's end of the

string does not necessarily

depend on yours.

Even if you cut it, it will not

change who you are.

It will not change what you

do, and it certainly will not

change what HE did.

✠

Chapter 1

S A V A N N A H

WHEN I WAS a little girl, my mother would braid my hair with the wild chrysanthemums we would find in the forest, while my father prepared turkey sandwiches for lunch. A few stray petals were nestled in my hair now, even though we had not been to the forest in eleven years. The chrysanthemums in my hair were tame; they grew uniformed and orderly in my mother’s back garden. They swayed gently in the breeze and seemed to beckon, like they were asking to be freed. Sometimes I had half a mind to dig up the earth and throw them outside of our fence, into the street.

I knew they would get trampled, but it did not seem to matter to me.

It would still be the same if I were one of the chrysanthemums. I would be free for only a moment; before the reality of life outside of the protection of a small house ran over me like a car tyre.

I stared out to the stream that ran past our house and the neighbour’s, squinting at its murky waters in hopes of spotting a fish. I had found a golden koi fish the last time we had ever went upriver to the nature reserve, and I had named it Goldie —very creative.

There were no fish as far as I could see in the stream. My legs ached to leave this place; to run back to the river and just escape the loop that was my life. But routines are comfortable, my mother insisted. And she was right. They were extremely comfortable —dangerously comfortable.

I sighed and glanced up, just in time to catch the sight of a man holding a briefcase who was walking down the street. My heartbeat accelerated and I breathed shallowly —but I knew it was not him.

It could not be him.

My father had left long ago, but his tall form and black suit still flashed in my subconscious in fuzzy static images, like an old television with bad signal. It was as though he was trying to send me a message. Which I would be very open to receive, because it would establish some kind of connection between him and me.

I missed being part of a three-person family, but my mother’s attempts to appease the issue with another one of her boyfriends, did not put her down in my good books.

Phoebe Green did not like me talking about him —my father. I could not even ask about him. She tried her best to erase the proof of him from everywhere: there were no photographs, no postcards, no text messages, and certainly no birthday and Christmas presents.

In her perfect world, he did not exist, and they had never met.

I would tell her that it was rather weird to tell me that she wished she had never met him. It was a notion that offended me enormously. Did she not realise that she was implying that I should not have been born?

“Savannah!”

I turned around at the sound of my name, and automatically cringed at the scowl on my mother’s face.

“What are you doing outside?” she asked, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder. Our ginger tomcat, Ron Weasley II, padded past her and walked up to my legs to rub his warm body against me affectionately.

I could not tell her the truth. “…Thinking,” I settled for, fiddling with my fingers and leaning against the doorframe.

She stiffened but to her credit, kept a level expression. “I certainly hope that it’s not what I think it’s about.”

“Nope,” I said quickly, shaking my head, before blowing upwards to get my hair out of my eyes. “I was thinking about…nature.” I glanced back at her army of chrysanthemums. “The stream, the trees, the flowers —”

“That’s nice dear,” she cut me off, “But can you please put on some warm clothes? It’s freezing outside.”

She then glanced down the length of me; in a short-sleeved t-shirt and swimming shorts. She turned her nose up in a huff as her gaze landed on my purple nail-polished bare feet. I offered her a sheepish grin.

“It is?” I asked stupidly, blinking. “I couldn’t feel it.”

Ron purred and flicked his ringed tail against my shin as though he understood and agreed with me. I bent down and picked him up off the ground, before holding him in my arms like a little baby.

Phoebe stopped doing what she was doing and froze, as if what I was saying unnerved her. It had been just over a year now, but little instances like these still seemed to spook her. It was nothing medical or even explicable —I had simply become immune to the weather; my body was always burning with its own heat; and certain plants with an aversion to sunlight seemed to wilt in my wake. We kept it to ourselves, still finding the means to function and hope that things would straighten themselves out.

Phoebe pointed adamantly towards down the hall. “Just do it, Savannah.”

I trudged off in that direction, in no mood to argue. It had been a really long day, and I did not need her attitude at the moment.

Ron jumped down and walked ahead of me, then insistent on his regal and entitled independence.

I unlocked the door to my room and picked up the first pair of jeans my hands reached out for, before grabbing my favourite hooded jersey and pulling it over my head. I then caught sight of my reflection in the mirror on my way out, and nearly jumped a foot into the air, causing Ron to mewl.

I wondered if I had even brushed my hair that morning.

I rummaged through the mess I called a dressing table, looking for my hairbrush. I cursed as soon as I found my efforts unfruitful and stomped out to head to my mother’s room instead. She must have lost hers this morning and so, snatched mine, before conveniently forgetting to return it.

Her room was off limits at all hours of the day —but I could usually get away with sneaking in and out in five-minute intervals if I needed something.

And I knew that Phoebe would not willingly give me back anything she had taken in her haste.

Even if she would have given me the hairbrush, she would have also taken offence at my assumption; concluding that I was accusing her without proof. She was stubborn that way.

You hardly ever use it anyway, she would end up defending herself, too proud to say she had just borrowed it. Her pride was a really big brick wall that I wished I could sledgehammer to the ground.

I scattered everything that was on her dressing table and scanned it before spotting my black plastic hairbrush and snatching it up triumphantly. I was about to turn away and leave, when I spotted something shining in the sunlight underneath the bed.

Hesitantly, I knelt down and felt around for it with one hand balled up into my jersey’s sleeve —since I did not know what to expect. I pulled out a solid black box, decorated with beautifully three-dimensional intricate silver flowers. I wondered why I had never seen it before. Phoebe and I had always gone shopping together, so I would have known.

Ron was suddenly next to me, staring at the box too.

“…Hey there, Weasley,” I whispered, scratching underneath his chin. “Looks suspicious, right? I wonder what’s inside.”

Ron looked at me and then back at the box. He slowly extended a hesitant paw, before scratching rhythmically at the box’s surface. I chuckled softly and ran my hand across his arched back, telling him to relax. Curiosity got the better of me and I moved to lift the lid up with my bare hand.

“Ow…What the —?” I hissed, recoiling as my fingers stung horribly. I sucked on them, hoping to cool down the sensation of burning flesh. Ron yelped and leaped backwards, startled. I sighed and stroked him again, needing him to calm down. Then I got back to that box. Besides the strange security, the lid itself was extremely heavy. “What is this made of…?” I wondered out loud. It was as if I would need a crowbar to even lift a measly inch. My gaze then travelled downward and narrowed at a strangely shaped keyhole. The shape of the hole was unlike any key I had ever seen, yet it looked a little familiar. My hand instinctively flew to my chest, clutching the necklace that always hung there underneath my clothes. I took it out and it sparkled in the sunlight; its sleek glass finish glinting mesmerisingly. It was a pair of black angel wings —beautifully intricate, and it seemed to radiate something so other-worldly.

It had been my father’s last gift to me before he had left. He had said that he had wanted to wait to give it to me until I was older, but feared that he might not be around when that time came.

It was almost like a religious symbol to me, and I never took if off unless necessary.

Still filled with trepidation, I carefully leaned down and placed the necklace by the keyhole. It looked like a perfect fit. I then stuck the pendant lengthwise; holding onto the other wing; into the hole and turned it, satisfied to hear a click. The lid opened up by itself —and inside, its treasures were revealed to me. Ron peered in too, as curious as I was.

Paper.

Stacked in tight piles and held together by thick string, were squares of paper. Then I looked a little more closely and found that they were actually letters. They were all addressed to our house, and to my mother. I wondered why she had not yet opened them —or possibly why she would keep unpaid bill notices under lock and key —before I lifted up a bundle and found that their stamps looked nothing like a postage stamp should.

I glanced towards the door, my heartbeat accelerating, but no footsteps approached, and the distant singing stayed in the kitchen. Ron padded around the box once, before sticking his nose up and stalking off towards the door and disappearing around the corner. It seemed as though I would have to uncover this mystery alone. I breathed a shaky exhale, before sliding out a single letter from a stack and examining it.

It smelled like something had died inside of it.

I made a face, holding it out at arm’s length. But then I noticed how the black envelope shimmered, even without the sunlight. I tore the flap open, in one swift movement. Then came the letter —crisp white paper overwritten by beautiful black typewriter print.

My Dearest Phoebe,

I know that you never want me to see her again, but if she is really behaving the way of which I have been informed, then I really need to see her. This may have something to do with my...nature; and if this is the case, then it is imperative that we take immediate action. I fear for her life — her immortal life. And I know that

I ask for this every time...but may I see her? Just once? Only for a minute — or even a glimpse, Phoebe. I just want to know how my daughter is doing.

H.

My eyes widened as I scanned the letter. I focused on the word ‘daughter’ and frowned. It was from my father —the man whom I had been told to consider as dead. He was still alive and well —and seemed to be…concerned about me. I was unsure of how that made me feel.

Did he know about what was happening to me? It was not an issue if so —he was my father after all. What unnerved me was my parents’ discussion about it and me, behind my back. Did I not have the right to know?

I was tempted to grow angry, but I knew deep down that it would yield nothing. My head had to remain levelled. I could not let my mother anger me without uncovering all of the facts, and considering her thought process. She only would have done it to protect us —to protect me.

Unable to resist, I grabbed another letter and hurriedly tore it open.

My Dearest Phoebe,

I am truly sorry about all that has happened. Please forgive me. Memory is a tricky thing when you are as old as me. But do not get the wrong impression — I wanted to come and attend her thirteenth birthday. But Charon will not let me cross without permission. I found it rather ridiculous that he meant that I should get approval from someone below me, but I cannot argue with Charon. He is the only one who can brave the waves. But enough about me. I regret not being present for Savannah becoming a teenager, but I hope to see her soon — if you are willing. Please, Phoebe.

H.

I blinked and a tear spilled and travelled down my cheek, before landing on the letter. Even if my parents were conspiring, it would have been good to know that my father was still around —and that he wanted to see me.

How could Phoebe have kept these from me all this time?

To my surprise, the salty tear water that had dripped then began to bubble on the surface of the paper, before it evaporated completely. I consequently dropped the letter, and accidentally knocked over the box, spilling the other bundles of letters onto the floor.

“Savannah, honey! Dinner’s ready,” my mother’s voice then suddenly carried down the hallway. I froze.

“Eh…coming, Mom!”

I began to panic. I quickly grabbed the fallen stacks of letters and turned back to the box. My hands hovered there in hesitation —and before I could stop myself, I stuffed them up the front of my jersey instead. The paper of the envelope unnaturally warmed my stomach, but I did not have the time to think about that.

After lowering the lid back down with jersey-covered hands and hearing a satisfying click, I slid the box back underneath the bed and stumbled to my feet, clutching at my midsection in an effort not to drop the letters. I hobbled over to the door, closed it quietly, before tumbling into my own room.

I let out a relieved sigh and quickly stuffed the letters into my pillow cover; out of sight.

My cellphone then vibrated four times, and my rattled nerves caused me to jump. I unlocked it to find that all of the messages were from my best friend Luca Georgette, and they were all in caps lock. She was demanding to know why I was not answering any of her messages. And under that, was a prompt to take a look at Francesca Minetti’s Snapchat story.

I smiled a little at the typical behaviour that could only be described as Luca being Luca; but I cringed at the last couple of messages. There was no doubt that Francesca’s Snapchat Story would be filled with bright lights and blurred images, as her iPhone camera tried to keep up with her intoxicated jerky filming. Anyone would get nauseous just from watching it.

I typed a reply —a short, curt response to properly illustrate my thorough distaste for anything to do with Francesca. I knew that Luca was only gauging for a reaction because she wanted to make me laugh, but I could not even bring myself to be in the mood to cooperate.

I pressed send and sighed in exasperation. I could not understand why Luca even entertained the idea of Francesca in the first place. All of my other friends tolerated her, but her and I just could not seem to get along.

Francesca Minetti was a carbon copy high school rich-girl-first-world-problems-drama-queen; and all of her equally fake girly hangers-on worshipped her like an Egyptian god.

Her smile was as flashy and misleading in authenticity as her bright purple bedazzled Porsche; and while people thought that the Devil wore Prada, I could testify that she wore Louis Vuitton and Gucci, bought using her daddy’s apparently limitless credit card.

I did rather enjoy our little passive aggressive banter every now and again though. Her petty and internet-stolen insults were always amusing and mood lightening —even on dismal weekdays.

Deciding not to dwell on it any further, I set my cellphone down beside my bed and headed towards the door and out of my bedroom.

✠

“Don’t you like mac and cheese?” my mother said through a mouthful, eyeing me suspiciously.

I had been poking around my plate with a fork; my mind drifting away to the letters clumped up in my pillowcase and how my fingers itched to open all of them and try to read them in the voice I had imagined my father to have. Ron weaved his way amongst the legs of the table and the legs of the humans, providing a strangely comforting feeling when his fur brushed against them.

“No, no. It’s fine,” I mumbled, bringing a forkful to my mouth to prove it. Then I paused, the fork in mid-air. “…Do you ever receive any…mail about me?” I put tactfully, careful to leave out ‘he’ and ‘still in contact with’.

My mother’s fork stopped scratching at porcelain. I looked up, but her gaze would not meet mine. Phoebe Green was not a shy or reserved woman. If she had something on her mind, offending someone by voicing it was always the last factor which she took into consideration.

“…What? You mean besides reports from school?” she almost forcefully chuckled, as though she were trying to laugh it off.

I did not elaborate. If she wanted to be that way, then fine. I looked down, twisting my fork in the pasta and sticky cheese sauce.

“Savannah, if you’re asking about…you know what,” she growled slightly for emphasis, “I can assure you that there has been no such activity. No contact; no mention —got it?” She pointed her fork at me.

That was her mantra. No contact; no mention. She did not limit the use of it to my father —it seemed to satisfy and dismiss every problem she faced.

I had to admit, I was a little crushed to hear her deny it —but also a little disappointed. Not in her, but in myself, for actually knowing that she would never admit to something like a weird occult box hiding underneath her bed.

So, I tried to play if off normally and nodded, bringing the same forkful of mac and cheese to my open mouth again.

“…Got it.”

✠

I lazily collapsed onto my bed, ready to sleep dressed in my t-shirt and pyjama shorts. Ron was past that stage and was already curled up on the far side of my bed, purring softly.

“Sav, don’t give me that look,” Phoebe said sternly from where she stood in the doorway. I looked up at her properly with my pitiful pout. “I think you know very well where I stand. And I also think you know that there is no way any mail would have ever been sent about you.”

I frowned at her use of the passive voice. Why was she feeling the need to remove herself from that sentence and not just say that she had never received anything —as untrue as it may be?

“…Sure.” I shook my head, trying to show that I agreed with her. I had no energy at that moment to push the issue.

She sighed, and her expression softened. “I love you. Very much.”

I smiled sadly and nodded. “…I love you too.”

I watched her leave and close the door. Once I was sure that she was gone, I grabbed my cellphone and sent a distressed message to Luca. She was the only one I trusted with this kind of information.

I thought about how much I should give away. Luca knew about the situation regarding my father, but she did not know everything. While in reality my contact with him was a dismal zero, I had told her that I hardly saw him though he was still very present.

I started to feel a little guilty for bending the truth to my best friend —but then I remembered that I refrained from getting too attached to someone.

Not enough to share family secrets; especially ones of which even I had not been aware. So, I only told her about the secret stash of letters, and that they were from my father. They also shared the same sent date —the twelfth of April. And Luca was pretty sharp.

She immediately caught on that the letters probably come routinely. And that the date was also my birthday.

I froze as I read her next messages. Yes, that date was my birthday. But to Phoebe and me, it was simply the day Savannah Ivy Green had started existing. Luca’s shock was only a result of intentional amnesia —but even she could not resist connecting the dots.

Today was the eleventh of April. I did not like remembering the fact that it was my birthday tomorrow, but I could not resist the feeling of hope for another letter coming. A more recent letter would make him feel a little more real; make him feel a little closer, and reachable.

If this was to be my only contact with my father, then I was sure as hell going to take it. I rolled over onto my stomach, reached for my charging cable and plugged my cellphone in, before turning onto my side and pulling up the covers —which was a little difficult with an adult sized cat laying on them but I succeeded without waking him up. I then shivered, thinking about tomorrow’s date. The letters crackled as I moved my head, making me sit up again. I slid some of them out and spread them on the sheets.

My alarm clock said that it was 21:04.

I had time. So, I settled down onto my stomach again before I opened one and began to read.