Page 1 of Commanding Flame and Shield
ONE
LOST SOUL
ALVARA
My temples ached as I scoured the broad room, searching for his scent. His energy. Anything that could lead us to him. But this cluttered shop, with all its musty aromas, was full of distractions and secrets—just not the ones we sought.
Dust glittered in a ray of sunlight that sliced through the gloom, but my attention caught on something beyond it. There was blatant age in the honey-colored wood of the piano, the worn keys looking so loved that they might break under my touch.
I walked to the corner where it sat, a smile on my face before my fingers even connected with its weathered surface. My favorite part of my clairvoyant existence was my gift to read history within objects.
I pulled my long hair back into a bun at the nape of my neck and took a cleansing breath.
The instant I caressed the intricate Victorian design engraved on the instrument’s side, my eyes were forced closed, and they plunged me into the piece’s demanding energy, witnessing flashes of its story.
Dozens of balls, pirouetting figures vanishing into smoke on either side...A grandmother’s foyer, where her children and grandchildren gathered to watch, enamored, as her wrinkled hands flew across the black and white keys...Young children—her grand babies perhaps, now grown a few years—learning to play, at the side of a woman bearing striking resemblance to the grandmother, minus a few decades.
Eyes open once more, I slowly stepped around the corner of the piano, hands sliding onto the keys.
Ahh.
There it was. Thousands, perhaps millions of melodies broke free in my mind, and I slowed them down, rewinding and fast forwarding until the tunes were intelligible enough to pull apart and truly appreciate.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked a voice with a hint of impatience.
The intrusion abruptly and rudely snapped me from my reverie, forcing me to yank my hand away from the tantalizing energy.
Sometimes it was easy to lose track of time as I danced through visions and histories, and humans were sensitive to people holding too still for any prolonged period, assuming we were suffering a stroke or panic attack rather than simply observing. We had to make a continuous effort tomovefor them.
I immediately tucked my fists into my sweater pocket. “No,” I snapped, my tone sharper than intended.
The woman visibly recoiled, expression affronted as she blinked up at me. I didn’t have to pry into her mind to feel the insults scrolling through it.
She was shorter than most mortal females, leaving me staring down into flat brown eyes, her blonde hair tied back, silver pieces weaving through a braid, and a few stragglers hanging down around her heart-shaped face.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my own ear and forced my most winning smile to make an appearance. Softly, I added, “Thank you. No, thank you, just looking.”
She warmed slightly, though her eyes were still less than trusting as she mumbled, “Okay, let us know if you have any questions,” and wandered off.
Questions.
Why, yes, ma’am, how on earth did an antique piece—surely a once prized family heirloom—land in this rathole, gathering dust and oil and what appear to be a small child’s jam-covered handprints?
I peered around the cluttered thrift store. My companions were on task, and there were no thoughts of urgency among them. A little probing couldn’t hurt.
My fingers dropped down onto the piano again, searching through the many decades of stories it yearned to tell me. I refined my question and focused on it, asking persistently.
As I had guessed, the last member of the bloodline had no sentimental attachment to the beauty—and with a small flat in the city, she could never warrant keeping such a grand instrument. Besides, she didn’t even know how to play.
I sighed. Mortals had no appreciation for history. Too stuck in the here and—
My breath hitched in my throat.There.
Like a burst of lightning through a looming storm, just a flash of an image. An image ofhim. That handsome face, tan fingers gently gliding across the keys, drawing out a melancholic melody. The warm light fell across his eyes as they lifted into a piercing ray of sunshine, illuminating them to reveal that striking shade of emerald-green that held my attention captive.
Nothing new, and nothing of particular gravity, but the man was inexplicably mesmerizing, and my mind held onto the latest vision the piano had given, that beautiful, sun-kissed face, relaxing as he played.
I opened my eyes, blew out a long breath, and surveyed the scene. Aren had his hands on garments, but his eyes were locked on mine.
