Rekindled Sparks

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Rekindled Sparks - book excerpt

Prologue

There is no denying it. Hearing it is the year 224 can be quite confusing, especially if you don't know the real truth of history. But I am not talking B.C. or A.D. No, I am talking O.D. or Óla Dei, meaning ‘all seen'. It's also, quite aptly, the abbreviation used for an overdose, which is something we all experienced a few hundred years ago, an overdose of the unseen. Our world forever changed, but you won't find that in your history books.

Before our year counter reset, your time ended, or at least it did for us. You continued on, unaware of what actually happened, and if my tales make it out of this region, then no doubt they will be passed over as fable, but this is our truth, this world is our truth.

As with most ends, it came as a complete force of devastation. The Doomsday clock leapt to midnight and the world as we knew it ended. But it wasn't missiles flying or chemicals assailing the sky, it was those who had existed unseen amongst us since the beginning, stepping into the light and making themselves known. These creatures, beings thought only to be spun from the minds of fablers like myself, had grown weary of living in the shadows, hiding their true nature, and Mankind fell to them in the blink of an eye and a new order was forced upon us.

But things changed too quickly, and the devastation was too great. That was when the Perennials came. Remember the story of how man obtained fire? Remember the gods of old? That was actually the Perennials. Invoking their powerful magics, these beings sacrificed themselves to rewrite history, turning back the clock for many minds and reaching into the great source of all to ensure no one your side would remember the truth.

They took it upon themselves to banish our land, remove it from sight and history, and seal within it as many of the creatures from your myths and legends as they could gather. Certain people in your history have worked alongside them, hunting these beings and directing their fate accordingly, sometimes relocating them to the island of Mython.

The problem is, Mython is a big island, and those of us here still have tales and books detailing the true history in all its horrific glory. Having seen how creatures had ravished the land, suffice to say our beginning was not an era of peace and harmony.

While the world outside had forgotten we had ever existed and moved into their new century, we eventually, through wars, rebellions and negotiations, found our own balance of sorts; one that is maintained by the most powerful of each race, those with Elder blood coursing through their veins.

Our country is divided into territories, each with its own elected leader who reports issues of note to the council, a collection of thirteen species predominately consisting of Elder bloodlines from the main preternatural lines such as shifter, fey, vampire, magical innate, elementals, celestials and so on. Humans were of course included, but we elect our own representatives just as any clan without such a sovereign did. The only missing faction is the Perennial, because none exist any more, at least none that we are aware of. After creating order, in our world and yours, it is said they invoked the last of their magic to seal our land from discovery.

Over two hundred years have passed since the wars died down and an uneasy truce was formed. The balance appears to be working. Now, life has returned to normal, or at least a manner of normal only possible here. Humans and preternatural are sharing space and resources, and the council are doing what is needed to maintain peace.

As I mentioned before, I am a fabler and it is my calling to tell the tales of our people. My name is Kathryn Jayne, and the tale here is just one of the many lives that call to me. Hopefully, what limited powers I have will guide it to your hands. Be it fiction in your eyes or not, these stories must be told.

Chapter 1

Maya's skin prickled. There it was again, that feeling of being watched, of someone's eyes upon her. She had felt it for days now, an electricity in the air that sent shivers chasing across her flesh. She shoved her hands deep into her grey princess coat's pockets, her fingers wrapping around her key-chain, caressing the panic alarm as she quickened her pace.

It was only a five-minute walk from where she'd parked her car, but seeing the ambulance depot in the distance brought little comfort. Sinister occurrences had no distance gauge. She was grateful that, despite it being autumn, the dark nights had yet to fully encroach, at least with the twilight sky above, the shadows weren't as dark and menacing.

She was always more apprehensive this time of year. Three years ago today her best friend, Raiden, had vanished without a trace. Their parting had left her hollow, as if a piece of her had vanished along with him. The worst part was, as far as anyone else was concerned, he'd never even existed.

She still recalled the way he had kissed her that night, stealing her breath as his lips met hers in a flurry of desperation, lust, and sadness. He had pulled away, his ice-blue eyes glistening with unshed tears as he studied her every contour with an oppressive weight that had terrified her. Something about how he had looked at her had seemed so final. He'd lingered at her door, weaving his hands within her long, dark brown hair, muttering an apology as he pressed his forehead to hers.

The next thing she knew she was waking in bed nursing a migraine, and Raiden was nowhere to be found. As the days rolled on, she began to worry. His device was disconnected—which happened more often than she'd like given his line of work—but more troubling was that no one but her seemed to remember him. Not her work friends, not her neighbours, not even her best friend, Carley.

He hadn't just vanished from her life; he'd faded from existence. Just weeks before he disappeared, she had completed her surgical residency and so, she used her increased access to search the hospital records, remembering how her father had treated him for multiple stab wounds not long after they had met. But it was as if he had never existed, as if their friendship, their relationship, had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

With Raiden's sudden disappearance and her father's death just the week before, it had all been too much. She had driven herself to the brink of madness trying to find him. At first, it gave her something else to think about rather than focusing on her father's death. She'd known in her heart the only reason he'd hung on as long as he had was so he could be there the day she qualified. Perhaps this loss was the reason finding Raiden had consumed her, why she had never been able to let him go. But she knew it was more than that, more than obsession. She had loved him so fiercely that, without him, she'd lost herself.

Her work friends had grown concerned, talking in hushed tones of a mental breakdown, using the fact her father had died as its cause. She had ignored their whispers for almost twelve months, twelve months of sidelong glances and veiled whispers, before taking the bridge course and changing professions, from surgeon to medic.

Her move had surprised them; while personally, she had been a mess, her skill as a surgeon never wavered. Her real motives were kept guarded. She knew better than to tell anyone that the reason for this move was to allow her access to chip location data, but she soon discovered it was impossible to find someone who didn't exist in any place but her memories.

For her, turning her back on a career she loved, hoping to find the person who had been her everything, had been the most natural thing in the world. But it had been three years now, and aside from the occasional phantom scent that caused her to scan the faces of those around, she'd found nothing to prove he had ever existed. Almost nothing.

Those at work, even her best friend, Carley, had thought her imaginary boyfriend was harmless, a coping mechanism, believing that her overwhelmed mind created a man in her life to replace the one she had lost.

She had been close to her father. Even with his busy schedule, he had always been present and attentive. He had been this hospital's lead trauma surgeon, and their shared passion had been one of the reasons she had chosen the medical profession. She had mourned his loss, even lost herself to grief for a short time, but no matter what anyone said, she knew Raiden was real. If she needed proof, if ever she faltered or thought she should give up and believe their lies, then she only had to dig a little deeper into her pocket for her fingers to touch the small graphite stone he'd given her on their third date.

He'd vowed to one day upgrade it to a diamond, but had said, like graphite, relationships first needed to survive heat and pressure to be forged into something magnificent. It had been the most romantic thing she had ever heard. After just three dates they had known they were it for each other, although she had only needed one. She had known the moment her almost black eyes had met his stark, contrasting ice-blue ones that he was the end. There could be no other.

She had paid to get the stone mounted onto a setting and fixed to the silver bracelet that used to belong to her mother, but between night shifts, studying, and wanting to drink in his presence every spare minute she could, it had taken her so long to get around to having it done that he'd never had the chance to see it.

The only time it ever came off was when she dressed for work or went out dancing, but still, she carried it, keeping it close, always in her possession. If not for this memento she may have agreed with Carley, with the catty whispers that had followed her outside the theatres, and consider that she had indeed lost herself indulging in flights of fancy.

Sometimes it was easier to believe a lie than fight for the truth.

Who was to say she hadn't just found a rock and invented the story? Digging her hands deeper into her pocket, she shook her head, knowing better than to flirt with insecurities. She had tried to move on with her life, but her heart would never let her forget. His every detail, from his hair coloured like storms and starlight to the way the crisp scent of fresh winter snow surrounded him, was forever burned in her mind and heart.

Even though the chip-tracking data had proven a dead end, she never considered returning to surgery. In an ambulance at least she could look for him on the streets during their patrol, instead of hoping he'd turn up in hospital. She glanced over her shoulder, the prickling sensation of being watched was still present even as the soft ambient light from outside the depot washed over her.

Placing the back of her wrist against the sensor, she waited for her chip credentials to register. It took barely a breath before the doors swept open and she was inside, away from the prickling heat of the unwanted watcher's stare. She glanced back over her shoulder as the door closed, wondering if she would catch sight of them. Within a moment, all she could see was her own intensely dark brown eyes staring back at her.

* * *

The siren wailed. Its shrieking cry ordered people aside as the ambulance careened down the city streets, weaving in and out of cars and skirting around barriers on the wrong side of the road as it tore its path through the city. Blue strobes illuminated the air, casting a vibrant hue against the darkening sky, bathing clubbers and party-goers with a brief taste of things to come once they were granted entry into their chosen establishment.

Maya's fingers curled tighter around the fold-down seat, its coarse fabric yielding to her touch as she held on for dear life. She was thrown from side to side, her long ponytail whipping around with each hastily taken corner. The world sped past her through the small window in a blur, but she knew better now than to watch it flash by.

Her vision remained fixed on the loaded tranquiliser gun, clipped into place on her left. The rattling of the clasps set her nerves on edge as it fought to make a daring escape. She didn't trust the holdings, even with their fingerprint activated release. They had failed once before with embarrassing consequences, one of which was her unfortunate nickname, Bambi. It didn't matter how many times she had protested that it was his mother who was shot, her dark brown hair and large brown eyes had sealed her fate.

"One minute to ETA," Mike called through the small open partition which doubled as a door separating the driver from the cabin. This blond-haired man was the one responsible for her perpetual motion sickness. He was an excellent driver—his skills were formidable—and Maya had no doubt he could conquer the racetrack circuits with ease and hold his own against any professional in the world beyond the barrier, while barely breaking a sweat.

She, however, already felt the waves of heat washing over her and was grateful she always skipped breakfast when was rotated with the Stig. He was known for his record response time for a reason. He exploited every opportunity and read the roads and his surroundings with the same ease as breathing. If ever she needed help—or even a getaway driver—she could only hope he would be the person behind the wheel.

Peeling one of her hands from the safety of the seat, she reached beneath, her fingers sliding around the smooth, braided handle of her personal equipment. Each medic had their own bag and was responsible for the items within, but given Maya's dual qualifications, she had access to far more tools than the average medic. This single large bag contained almost everything she could possibly need for whatever emergency they approached. Except for the tranquiliser gun. She would have felt a lot better if that piece of kit was accompanying them inside. She ran a finger across the hidden hook-and-loop sealed pocket she'd added to her belt, confirming the small tranquiliser dart was still secure in its holding.

After the transfer, she had soon discovered medics were not as respected as they should be. She had never realised how much abuse they suffered for just trying to help. Whilst the same could be said of many medical professions, this one seemed to carry more risk. Unlike in the hospitals where the patients were made to wear a suppressor and had all possessions removed on admittance, out here, the patients still had access to weaponry and their latent abilities.

Just eight months ago, someone had tried to hold her hostage, hoping to trade her life for the medicines they carried. Luckily she was already carrying the dart on her by then since just a week before another patient had tried to stab her, not to mention the time when the newly turned vampire had thought to call them as if they were a meals-on-wheels service. Being a medic was not safe, although it made for some entertaining stories.

She had been in her fair share of scenarios where the dart she concealed on her person had come in handy. The gun, however, was for the more dangerous situations, such as berserkers. If the notification they received was accurate, this would be just a run-of-the-mill resuscitation. But that meant nothing these days.

Even with the reports of violence and altercations, they were expected to go out without issued stab vests or defensive tools. Despite the number of attacks that occurred, the public only ever heard about a very select few; the rest were swept away, logged but ignored, meaning the underlying issues were never addressed.

Over the last year, things had become worse, to the point her Station Officer had purchased protective clothing for his teams from his own pocket, and many other depots across Mython had followed suit. The only times they wore official body armour was when summoned into dangerous situations with the Blue Coats, all other times the public expected to see the golden Rod of Asclepius displayed on the front and back of their green uniform. Maya gave her shirt a tug. She still wasn't convinced the thin vest she wore under it could stop a knife, but apparently, it was the leading edge in discrete protection.

She ran through a mental checklist, her small ritual as she unfastened the belt. While Mike was known for his impressive driving skill, she too had notability. No one tried harder to prevent someone from dying. She went above and beyond, utilised every resource, and fought beyond the window to call time of death for the chance of one more breath. Everyone fought for this, but her success rate of dragging someone back from the underworld was impressive, so much so that Station Officer Silvers had scheduled her for an aptitude test, convinced the unidentified Magic Innate—MI—coding of her blood would prove her to be a healer, despite her earlier testing as a child showing no affinity.

At birth, everyone had their blood registered into type and coding. The coding fell into several categories: EB, meaning the person possessed elder blood, beings believed to have descended from a mortal and divinity pairing, adding extra power to their hereditary talents; MI—Magic Innate, suggesting the person has preternatural tendencies towards manipulating energy and magic or someone in their family once possessed a gift; and NM—Neutral Mundane or Non-Magical, which applied to a majority of the human population.

There were other classes that identified clans; for instance, vampires were categorised as HC, belonging to the Hematophagy Clan since they consumed blood; and shifters were MC, part of the Metamorphic Clan, as they possessed the ability to alter shape. The lists went on, but categorisation meant a medic at least knew what to expect when their device connected to the biometric chip that a large majority of Mython possessed.

These chips were nothing short of amazing. They not only tracked a person's health and location, but allowed them to pay for goods and services, or even access their home computer files from any device. The chips also allowed people access to secure buildings, like the ambulance station and even many homes these days, so long as they had the correct credentials. If it was electronic, this chip could regulate it and thus made the need to carry anything else redundant.

The sirens silenced, bringing her back from thoughts. That was her cue to move. As her hand rested on the rear doors, she took one final glance towards the tranquiliser gun before disembarking.

The setting sun had just started to dip below the horizon, teasing the solar-charged streetlights into life. Curtains twitched as nosey neighbours peered outside, their inside lights betraying their curiosity as the beams escaping from parted curtains illuminated manicured and overgrown gardens alike.

At the end of the short, cracked driveway, light spilt from the open door causing the few weeds growing between time-worn cracks to cast long shadows down the narrow winding path that led to her destination. Shadowed by the light, the silhouette of a young girl stood waving desperately, her teddy bear gripped tightly by its paw as she jumped up and down shouting through tears that her daddy was in here.

Maya's feet struck the uneven paving, her heavy boots making her run sound like thunder as she hurried up the path, past the young girl in rainbow pyjamas, and into the house, knowing Mike would be on her heels after securing the vehicle.

From the second she crossed the threshold, she was assailed by family photographs. Frames lined the wall, some purchased, others clearly crafted with love from wood, pasta, and glitter. She didn't stare, she barely passed her gaze over them, but she saw so many natural, unposed pictures of happy times and treasured moments covering almost every free space in the narrow hall.

Glancing upstairs towards the bedrooms she paused, her instincts told her whoever needed aid was downstairs. Her gaze lingered on the far door at the end of the hall. Given the uniform layout of most houses, it was probably the kitchen, just as she knew, as she stepped through the left door, she would find herself in the living room.

Light spilt through the slender bell light-shade of the high ceiling, causing the glass remains of the small coffee table to glisten, almost creating a halo around the muscular man's frame. Like his family, he was in his pyjamas, the ebony black fabric making his pallor look even more cadaverous. Darker staining on the carpet wafted the familiar odour of coffee.

Maya inhaled again, catching small remnants of the pizza and chips they must have had for tea and the undertones of popcorn that originated from a small bowl at the side of the worn three-seater sofa. A tiny blonde woman leaned over her husband's enormous frame, her dainty hands pushing at him, silently begging him to wake as tears traced her soft jawline.

"Ma'am, can you tell me what happened here?" Maya questioned, placing her finger to the man's throat. Nothing. The woman glanced up, her lips moving soundlessly. "Was he complaining of any pain, has he taken something, eaten anything unusual?" she questioned, her fingers sliding across her device until it chirped, notifying her the man's chip had synced with her device. A quick glance at the screen showed the black-haired subject, one Fredrick McArther, classified as NM, Normal Mundane. Flat-lined for three minutes and counting.

She had just finished her assessment and started chest compressions when she heard the front door close as Mike walked in, behind her by only half a minute. With a confirmatory nod to Maya, he placed his arm on the grieving woman, escorting her further away, trying to pry some further information from her that might be of aid. Mike could always coax information from even the most terrified or grieving witness. Despite his dare-devil driving, he had an air of warmth about him. If she was viewed as the little sister of the station, he was the father.

Sweat formed on Maya's brow as she began a new cycle, her knee burning from the shards of glass grinding beneath her. Mike would no doubt pull her up on the fact she'd not put her knee pads in, again. She leaned down, breathing for him, watching his chest rise and fall as she forced oxygen into his lungs.

"Come on, beat," she whispered, her eyes drawn to the stricken girl who now stood watching as Maya began her next cycle of compressions. The young girl shared her father's dark hair. She stood by the fireplace, her heartbroken face a sheer contrast to the many photographs behind her. "Beat," Maya whispered in time with each compression.

She breathed for him again. Another cycle, another near-silent prayer as heat and electricity began to chase through her. Then she heard it. The faint bleeping from her device to say there was a pulse. Placing her ear to the man's mouth, she waited, looking down at his chest, hoping to see it rise, or feel the hint of a breath upon her skin. Sweat trickled down her spine, tingling like electricity as it traced its path, and the silence stretched on. Nothing.