Chapter Seven
Dev snorted a strong dose of warm saltwater that burned his nostrils and flipped his brain’s switch to “On.” A light breeze ruffled the leaves along the drifting mangrove cluster he’d flung an arm over before passing out.
Am I dead? He tried to open his eyes, but they stuck. Nothing but the steady thump of his heartbeat registered in his range of hearing. Ugh. Alive then.
He tried his eyes again and popped the salt-crusted seal. Heartened, he lifted the dead thing that should be his arm out of the water. Heavy and awkward, it dripped liquid all over his face. He rubbed the crust from his eyes and stared into a clear night punctuated with a million stars.
A large swell broke against the side of his head, splashing brine across his face. He blinked away the sting and took a deep breath. Bone grated on bone. Agony crashed down on him like a tidal wave. His body’s pain receptors hadn’t kicked in until he tried to breathe. Then, not only his chest, but his shoulder, legs, hips, and back vied for attention.
Overwhelmed, his memories mashed and twisted, confusing past with present in his semi-conscious state. A nightmare of buried pain and suffering surfaced.
O O O
Filth, old straw and fresh blood covered the stone floor of his prison cell. From his fetal position against the wall, Dev eyed the boots of the man he’d learned to hate. Every day they shuffled into his cell behind a cart filled with tools to deliver fresh torment. And for what? To force him to confess to heresy—to admit that upon orders from the Grand Master, he and his Templar brothers renounced Christ and committed heinous acts against the church and mankind upon initiation into the brotherhood.
It was all a lie. No matter how many times he told the truth, screamed it as loud as he could, King Philip’s guards continued to cut and stab, twist and snap. And he not even a Templar, by God, but an artisan, a weapon-smith.
Torchlight flickered through the slats in the tiny window set near the top of the cell door and danced with the shadows on the bare block walls. Fire. The crackling chatter kept him company, reminded him of home.
I hear you, my friend.
Blood ran from dozens of new wounds. His body twitched from the chills brought on by the high fever that ransacked his weakened body. The stench of his own waste mixed with newly spilled blood broke through his normally numb senses—a horrid reminder of how his life had changed in so short a time. At least he thought it was short, he couldn’t tell anymore. Time served no purpose other than to fill the void between agonizing sessions with the torturer.
So co … cold. Teeth chattering, he hugged his knees tight and slumped against the stone, entranced by the fire’s orange glow. He missed the heat and smells of his forge. The strike of hammer on metal played the song of his heart. Creating works of lethal artistry consumed long days and blissful nights until Véronique pulled him away.
Beautiful Véronique. Long, auburn hair. Brilliant, blue-green eyes. Tanned skin. Only she had the power to drag him from the fire and forge.
Soon, my dear. I’ll speak to your father when I get back from Paris.
The daily recollection of his parting words delivered another wave of agony. Despair stole his energy, his hope, his will to live.
So … tired. Drawing a shallow, pain-filled breath, he closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.
A hot breeze sighed across his fever-chilled skin. Fire crackled outside the door.
In his mind, he stood at his forge on the beach, hammer in hand. A light, salty wind blew in off the Mediterranean laden with the maritime scent of freedom. Sunlight glinted off small swells, obscuring the horizon.
Perfection.
The temperature rose in his cell. Long absent heat seeped into Dev’s skin, banishing fever-induced chills. Cramped muscles began to ease and he stretched his legs across the floor. In that moment of relative ease, he caught a foreign hiss buried in the torch’s fiery banter. It hinted at the familiar, but he couldn’t recognize it and did not possess the desire or conviction to truly care. The blessed heat and relief as agony’s wicked edge receded eclipsed all else.
Dev’s awareness blurred as oblivion crept closer. Before he slipped away, the fire popped and hissed. Louder and more distinct, the words solidified and tunneled into his soul.
“Develor Quinteele.”
Fire called his name.
O O O
Dev woke with a mouthful of Tampa Bay. The saltwater had sneaked in while his head lolled to the side. With his free arm, he clamped down on his chest to hold it together during a coughing fit to clear the alien element. He lay back against the mangrove cluster and eased in a few dry, shallow breaths.
Once sure his chest wouldn’t burst, he opened his eyes. Dawn’s faint glow pinked the horizon to his left. A row of houses huddled along the distant shoreline to his right. The moving tide had carried his unconscious body across the shallow flats to the mouth of the bay where his heels snagged on a sand bar. To keep him alive, his body automatically drew the heat from the water through his pores. The process made him itch.
Elemental magic called to his soul from that row of houses, the strain a separate ache from the rest of his shattered body. He willed his arms to paddle, to follow the call, but they wouldn’t obey. Exhausted, thoughts muddled, limbs numb and lifeless, he surrendered to the magic’s pull.
A strange stinging sensation circled his chest, traveled up his spine and out through the base of his skull like an invisible rope tied around his torso. With a gentle tug, he stopped and reversed course, but his heels remained locked in the sand.
The “rope” tightened around his shattered ribs and pulled. Agony blurred his vision, threatening to knock him out again. Trapped, he slid through the grasping sand a few inches then stopped. He tried to lift his feet out of the sand, but they refused to listen.
Tension on the line increased and squeezed the air out of his lungs. Pain blocked out his world. The last thought he had before the stars winked out was a vivid memory of another time, of another restraint across his chest.
O O O
King Phillip’s men placed Dev on a sturdy oak table, held his arms out, and snapped a wide iron band into place over his chest.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
His torturer hammered long spikes into the band’s eyelets at each corner to secure Dev in place for the day’s event. For days, the guards had taunted him with the promise of fire. While they meant to terrorize their victim, for Dev the promise held only excitement.
Fire called my name. It had only happened once, but that single flash of light provided a respite from the darkness and restored a glimmer of hope, of purpose. Desperate for the connection, he tried to communicate through word, thought, and even prayer, but to avail. Though the torch crackled and popped, it would not say his name.
After one last pound that mashed the head of the spike against the hole, the torturer stood back from his handiwork.
“Stand him.” He motioned for the guards to hurry.
They pushed one end of the table to the ground and angled the other toward the ceiling. Strapped in and helpless, the restraint’s rusted edges bit into Dev’s slack, pale skin. His arms and legs hung down and swung free.
The torturer darted his tongue between the gaps in his teeth like an adder. A thin trail of saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth. After raking his fever-bright stare over Dev, he grabbed Dev’s chin with rough, grimy fingers and forced his head to the side.
“The fire comes, hérétique. Are you ready to feel its kiss?”
Before Dev could see the fire, he sensed it. A wave of heat covered his body like an old, comfortable blanket. He would have smiled if his ruined lips could move without breaking.
Fire entered the room contained in a large brazier toted between two sweat-soaked guards. Various prods, poles and tools stuck out of the burning embers.
Dev had to squint in the presence of the light after too long spent in gloom. Heat surrounded him, caressed him, energized him. Smoke drifted from the brazier in lazy, wood-scented trails.
“Develor Quinteele.” Dev jerked as the words sizzled in his ear. He glanced at the guards to see if they’d heard, but their focus remained on the torturer and the man’s obvious glee at jabbing the prods deeper into the flame.
The brazier spit. “We can be one. Man and Fire—a noble light to vanquish the dark forces in this world.”
A noble light … vanquish. The words resonated, each one a jolt to his flagging spirit.
“I offer you freedom from your current pain, a chance for life beyond this place,” the Fire said.
Dev’s breath caught. Freedom …
“It’s time, hérétique, you kiss the flame now.” The torturer lifted a brand tipped with the letter H, spit on the glowing end, and savored the resulting hiss. “Everyone will know you are hérétique.” To his men he said, “Hold his face.”
The guards rushed to comply, pressing Dev’s cheek to the wood with dirty fingers.
“I offer you vast and righteous power,” the Fire said.
Pulse racing, breathing rapid, Dev allowed the guards to hold him down.
“I offer you the chance to fight for those who cannot,” the Fire said.
Righteous power … fight for those who … His spirit soared at the possibilities. A taste of fire trickled through his veins. Though weak, his body thrummed.
“Choose!” the Fire commanded.
Dev watched the torturer come, watched this loathsome wad of humanity position the fiery symbol over his upturned cheek, watched his little piggy eyes flash as the brand descended.
At peace, Dev closed his eyes and welcomed his chosen element.
As the brand touched his skin, his soul ignited. Back arching off the table, he popped the nail heads holding the iron band. It banged to the floor and his torturers jumped back. The flames burning in the torches around the room and nestled in the brazier leaned toward him, reaching out to their new elemental brother. As one, they leaped from sconce and brazier to man in a fiery conjoining of life, spirit, and purpose.
Molten power ripped through Dev’s veins and fused with his bone and sinew. The pain dwarfed anything he felt before, ripped a primal scream from his throat as his fire-laced body transformed. Flames burst from his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth. Slack skin erupted in fiery patches, burned away, and rebuilt red and raw. Inside, his organs boiled, blood oozed through his system like lava flowed down a volcano.
As quickly as it flared up, the flames receded. Still weak, but stronger than he’d felt since his ordeal began, he took a faltering step. His battered body protested, but he could move under his own power.
Smoke rose from his skin, leaked from his eyes. The fire coursed through him, surging beneath the surface, waiting for his call.
In control, the details of the room began to register—charred walls, guards and torturer reduced to piles of ash on the floor. With a rush of satisfaction, he scuffed his bare foot through the piles and scattered their remains among the muck and filth.
Booted feet pounded down the hall.
Dev faced the door, stood straight. His element itched to be released.
Three guards charged into the room. They took one look at Dev, crossed themselves, and tripped over each other to get out. He thought he heard one of them mumble something about a demon.
It was time to leave, to go back to his old life. No more Templars. No more Paris. He wanted to go home and be a simple blacksmith, marry Véronique, raise a family, and live out his life in peace.
Dev stumbled to the door, kicking a steel helmet one of the guards dropped in his haste to get away. He picked it up and examined the visage reflected in its polished surface—smooth red skin stretched taught over gaunt features with eyes the color of burning embers.
What … Trembling, he glanced around at the carnage wrought by his transformation, at the smeared remains of his captors, and once again at the demon reflected in the metal. Tossing the helmet aside, he stumbled toward the door and escape.
My God, what have I become?