Burning Violet

BURNING VIOLET

Fiery Blooms Series

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 in 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

Thank you

Excerpt

Fiery Blooms series

About the author

BURNING VIOLET

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, today, 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