Flame Caster (The Fire Heart Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  Flame Caster

  The Fire Heart Chronicles Book 2

  Juliana Haygert

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Dictionary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Thank you

  About the Author

  Also by Juliana Haygert

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Juliana Haygert

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  First Edition September 2018

  www.JulianaHaygert.com

  Edited by H. Danielle Crabtree

  Cover design by Ravven

  Any trademark, service marks, product names, or names featured are the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms is used.

  Created with Vellum

  Author’s Note

  I hope you enjoy reading Flame Caster!

  Don’t forget to sign up for my Newsletter to find out about new releases, cover reveals, giveaways, and more!

  If you want to see exclusive teasers, help me decide on covers, read excerpts, talk about books, etc, join my reader group on Facebook: Juliana’s Club!

  Dictionary

  Chey – daughter

  Daj – mother

  Dat – father

  Gadjo – non-Romani person

  Nais tuke – thank you/thanks

  Puri Chey – granddaughter

  Puri Daj – grandmother

  Rom Baro – leader of the enclave

  Saint Sara-la-Kali – Romani Saint

  Sastimos – a greeting

  Vurdon – wagon

  1

  I was always a firm believer that everything happened for a reason.

  Now, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I was the Heart Maiden. I hadn’t known I was a tzigane, a special kind of Romani with actual magical powers, until two months ago. I knew next to nothing about tzigane history and customs, even though the elder council ordered I studied it all ASAP. I had no control over my powers, and if it weren’t for my mother’s elixir, I would have killed a person or two by now.

  I was also a hot-tempered, sharp-tongued, cut-the-bullshit kind of girl. I bet the council, with all their orders, would get tired of me fast.

  But for now … for now, I tried to compromise.

  As I walked out of the classroom, my phone vibrated. I checked and it was a message from my mother.

  Mom: I’m 5 minutes late. Be there soon.

  Me: Okay.

  Letting out a sigh, I exited the building and sat on the side of the stone steps. Students came and went; all of them went about their classes as if this were the real world.

  If only I could still be that naïve.

  Now I knew there was so much more to the world. There were magical creatures, there were monsters, and there were alchemists who were bent on using tzigane blood for terrible purposes. And they were after me.

  That was why I wasn’t walking to the bus stop. That was why I had to stay here, seated on this cold stone step, waiting for my mother to pick me up. Usually, she would be parked right in front of the building the moment I stepped out.

  As much as I liked the break from being watched over twenty-four-seven, I hated staying put and doing nothing.

  I pulled out my phone and found a text message from Ellie.

  Ellie: Hi, Mi. Raul wants to go to Muévete this Friday. Are you in?

  Shit.

  Me: I wish.

  Ellie: Because of the alchemists?

  I had met Ellie about two months ago, when she started taking my flamenco classes at the dance studio I taught at. Even though I was quiet and wary of making friends, Ellie had broken through my walls, and soon I considered her my best friend. She had gotten a little creeped out when she found out I was a tzigane, but after the alchemists kidnapped us, she had come to terms with it. Mostly.

  Me: Yup.

  Ellie: Then tell your hunky warriors to come with you.

  Me: They won’t go. I asked already, and they were vehement. They won’t let me go anywhere like that anymore, and they won’t take me.

  Ellie: Jeez, that sucks.

  I agreed. Muévete was a great club about thirty minutes from Broken Hill that played lots of flamenco and reggaeton, which I loved. But since the alchemists’ attacks, “my hunky warriors” and the elder council decided I couldn’t go anywhere. There or any other clubs or bars, or anywhere that would make protecting me difficult.

  Such a pain in my ass.

  Ellie: Is there anything I can do?

  Me: Come and rescue me.

  Ellie: Say when and where. I would love to teach the hunky warriors a lesson.

  I chuckled, imagining Ellie standing up to Artan and Theron, the two warriors who were always trailing me. I might pay to see that.

  Letting out a sigh, I watched the road. Where was my mother? She was never this late.

  A cold breeze blew by, and I tightened my suede jacket around me. The day was gray and dark for ten in the morning, but the forecast had called for clear skies in the afternoon, which would warm the day a little. But only a little since October in Connecticut was already too damn cold, in my opinion. I missed the heat of Florida.

  Hm, an idea popped in my mind. I bit my lip, wondering if I could pull it off. It would be a little risky with so many people walking by me, but I couldn’t stop the little excitement filling my veins. What could I say? I liked risky and forbidden things.

  I closed my eyes and focused on my magic. I called it from deep inside me. Because of the suppression elixir I drank every day, only a sliver answered. It was enough, though. I channeled it, coaxing it out of its hiding place. Soon, the magic ran free inside me, and I let out a relieved exhale. At first, it had been odd to feel magic inside me. Now, it was a part of me. I pushed my magic under my skin, the fire in my magic, and focused on the heat, on the warmth.

  Soon, my skin felt warmer, and I wasn’t cold anymore.

  A proud smile spread over my lips. I had done it. I had been able to warm myself with my magic, my yog—the tzigane word for fire.

  But the heat kept increasing, kept coming, and my hands started turning orange.

  Shit.

  I closed my eyes again and focused. I pushed the magic back. I asked it to retreat, to let it go, before fire shot from my hands and everyone saw what I could do. Only the heat increased and panic took over.

  Without thinking, I ran inside the building and into the nearest restroom. I turned on the cold water faucet and shoved my hands and arms under the water. A hiss echoed through the bathroom and a little smoke rose from my now damp jacket.

  A girl stepped out from a stall and stared at my arms—and jacket—under the water.

  “I …” I started. But what could I say that made sense? Nothing came to mind. The girl looked at me as if I were crazy, then dashed out of the restroom without washing her hands.

  I sighed.

  When my magic was doused, I turned off the faucet and stripped off my jacket. Cursing, I folded the sleeves of my sweater to my elbows. Now I would be even colder outside. Damn, what the hell had I done?

  It was only morning and my day was already going so well.

  I dragged my feet back to the front of the building, fully expecting to see my mother parked in the fire lane, waiting for me, but to my surprise, she wasn’t there.

  Shivering, I picked up my phone and shot her a text.

  Me: Where are you? Everything okay?

  I stared at the phone, waiting for an answer.

  The next set of classes was about to start. A large group of students rushed into the building. A guy bumped his shoulder into mine and I stumbled back.

  He reached to me and held my upper arm. “Sorry.”

  A cold shiver rolled down my spine as I stared at him. He wore a black hoodie and a black mask over his nose and mouth. When I didn’t answer, he humphed and continued his march to the building.

  A long breath escaped my lungs, and I put a hand over my racing heart. Holy crap, what a scare. For a moment, I thought the guy was an alchemist, but his mask was a part of a scarf to cover his nose and mouth against the cold air. That didn’t stop my overacting brain from imagining him conjuring a shadow dagger and piercing it into my heart.

  I sw
allowed, trying to push those fears away.

  The guy wasn’t an alchemist. Not everyone who wore a hoodie, or a cloak, or a mask was an alchemist. I knew they could be hiding in plain sight like Phillip had done—he had pretended to be a normal human who liked me to get close—but after all I had been through, it was hard not to.

  I shook my hand.

  Mirella, stop.

  I couldn’t live in fear. I had to live as I always had. I refused to cower because of these damn alchemists.

  And yet, when I saw my mother’s car rounding the corner and coming toward me, I never felt more relieved.

  I rushed down the steps, and once she stopped in front of the building, I jumped inside the car.

  My mother, an older copy of me, knotted her brows. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said, sinking into the seat.

  She lifted an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Just drive.”

  Without a word, she pulled away from the curb and back onto the road. “I’ve never seen you so eager to go to training.”

  “What can I say? I love getting my butt kicked.” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

  My mother shook her head, her eyes on the road.

  I glanced at her as she drove. She asked what happened, but it wasn’t as if she really wanted to talk to me. She never did. She wanted to be near me. She wanted to make sure I was all right, but talk? No. Every time I had tried to talk to her, she practically ran away. So why would I reach out to her when she never tried reaching out to me?

  I crossed my arms and stared out the window, wishing time passed quickly and training wasn’t so bad. At least, I would get to see Artan, even if the hunky warrior was always in a bad mood.

  Maybe today, just today, he would be nice, or less horrible, and not kill me during training.

  2

  It all had been wishful thinking.

  I landed on my butt with a gasp. Again.

  Standing three feet from where I was sprawled on the floor, Artan shook his head. “You’re not listening to me.”

  I groaned. We had been training for almost two hours. If I tallied all the hours he and Theron had spent teaching me to fight these past few weeks, it was probably more than my college and dance classes put together.

  And yet this fighting thing kept fighting me.

  “I am listening,” I complained as I pushed to my feet. My ass was sore, but I wasn’t about to complain. “I already told you, I’m not cut out for this.”

  I brushed my hands on my thighs, trying to pretend it was dust from the floor, not the calluses that had been forming from working out too much. When I looked up, Artan’s hazel eyes were fixed on me, on my legs, and his lips were pressed tight.

  Heat spread through my cheeks.

  I had caught him staring at me a few other times when we were training, and even though I didn’t think he was really looking at me—no, just lost in thought—I couldn’t help the flames licking my insides.

  Artan cleared his throat and lifted his eyes to mine. “You have to be,” he said, his voice rough. “Now, let’s start over.”

  He took three steps back and positioned himself.

  And then it was my turn to stare.

  Artan’s tall frame was clad in the warriors simple training clothes—light suede pants, a fitted Henley, and brown combats boots—and he stood with his powerful legs apart and fists raised. His biceps and shoulder muscles bulged. Even his face seemed sculpted out of perfect marble.

  How could a girl be by his side several hours every day and not notice he was too handsome for his own good? How could she not feel attracted to him? I needed to know what magic that was, because damn, I wasn’t sure I could resist much longer.

  Thankfully, Artan was quiet and stoic and kept to himself. Besides the handful of times I caught him staring, there was no indication that he might be interested in me. Which was great. The thought of being rejected stopped me from making a fool of myself when things heated up—at least on my side. Each time he came closer and touched my hands and arms, showing me how to position them properly … And once, when he actually stepped behind me and pressed his chest to my back, I had to ask for a break.

  I probably needed one right now.

  “I need some water,” I muttered, turning from the center of the mat to the cubies along the wall.

  My back turned to the fuming guy in the middle of the room. I took a long drink of my water. What did he expect from me? I was a dancer, not a fighter. Some of the kicks were okay, like roundhouse kick, but the position of the foot in a sidekick? Who the hell came up with that? My ballerina foot didn’t twist that way. I would never get all these details, I would never know how or when to apply them, and I would never have the power that should be behind each strike. Besides, it had only been two weeks since I found out I was the damned Heart Maiden, the only one who could bring salvation to the tziganes, whatever that meant. Since the ritual, when we found out my real powers, I had been treated like royalty. Whenever I came to the enclave, tziganes stopped and stared and smiled and bowed their heads with their fists over their hearts. Some dared come to me and ask for a blessing. A blessing! Me? Blessing someone? These people were doomed.

  “Mirella,” Artan called me, his voice much gentler than before, but like anything coming out of Artan’s mouth, it still had an edge to it. “Let’s start over.”

  Why did I feel so attracted to him? There was a very frustrating and unbendable no-dating rule that came with being the heart maiden. No matter what, I wasn’t to be touched. I was to live my life alone, serving the tziganes until my very last breath. Artan, with his huge sense of honor, would never even look at me with any interest.

  I had to do the same.

  Easier said than done.

  I set my water down and turned around. Frustrated with my progress, or lack of—among other things—I folded my arms over my chest, leaned against the cubies, and faced him, my chin lifted. “Can’t I just find the flowers and you and the other warriors do the fighting?”

  His shoulders relaxed and his eyes fixed on mine. Artan took two steps closer. The intensity of his gaze was too much for me, so I averted my eyes, pretending the weight lifting equipment and the treadmills and ellipticals on the other side of the training room were interesting.

  Artan let out a long exhale. “We have to hope for the best scenario and the best scenario is that when you feel the call of the flower, we will go there, retrieve it, and come back. Simple as that. No complications, no unexpected encounters. But we need to prepare for the worst.”

  I returned my eyes to him. “And that would be being attack by alchemist.”

  He nodded. “Among other things.”

  “Like?”

  He paused. “Like revenants and other creatures I hope you never meet.”

  The images of those revenants attacking us in the parking lot of my old apartment flashed through my mind. Those foul vampire-like creatures. I shuddered, hoping I didn’t encounter one ever again.

  “If you’re trying to instill bravery in me, you’re doing a poor job,” I said. “In fact, you’re doing the exact opposite. I might not go after any flower if there are alchemists and revenants and other creatures waiting to attack us.”

  “To attack you,” he corrected me.

  I gaped. “You’re making it even worse.”

  “But it’s the truth.” He moved another foot forward, and the light overhead hit just right, making the gold flecks in his hazel eyes shine like the sun. His gaze never faltered as he continued, “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to prepare you. You have your magic, and with training, you’ll probably be able to defeat them all easily and picking the flowers won’t seem like a torture session. But alchemists are tricky. They come up with new potions every day. What if they create a potion to render our magic useless? What if my warriors and I are busy fighting more alchemists? You need to be able to defend yourself.”