Wick (LT3 Serials) by Megan Derr

Author:Megan Derr
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: M/M romance, fantasy, short stories
ISBN: 9781620040072
Publisher: Less Than Three Press LLC
Published: 2012-01-13T06:00:00+00:00

Flamewick

Creawick felt numb as he stared at the ruins of his country home—his secret country home that he had never spoken of to anyone. Even Lyrawick, one of the very few people he trusted, did not know of the house.

How, then, had the bastards found it?

He stared at the razed house, the burned and singed trees surrounding it. Burning the house but not the woods spoke of flamewick, but the fact that some of the trees had suffered said it had been a subpar flamewick.

The numbness was all that allowed him to stare at the ruins of his home without losing his mind. He dreaded the moment when the numbness finally faded because even he could not say what he would do.

Of course the bastards had used fire to destroy his home, to take away the only thing in his life that mattered, the only thing he loved and had worked so hard to protect. Gone up in flames just to mock him and put him in his place. If Kenwick had hurt them … Creawick had to believe Kenwick had taken them because if Kenwick had killed them he would have put the bodies on displayed.

Just thinking about coming upon their corpses on grotesque display made Creawick sick. The very moment he was able, Creawick was going to remind that bastard, remind all of them, why it did not pay to anger a Master Flamewick.

A fluttering piece of paper caught his eye, and he saw someone had left a message for him pinned to a tree with a dagger. He sneered at the unsubtle message, the drama of it all. As though burning down his home—the only place he thought of as home—was not message enough.

Creawick yanked the dagger out of the tree and threw it aside, and then opened the sealed piece of paper and read the brief message.

Tarcic. Five days.

He folded the note and slipped it into a pocket of his jacket, ignoring the slight tremble to his hands. So Kenwick had them. Creawick would burn him alive slowly and relish the screams.

My love, we will get them back.

Creawick turned as Brightheart bumped against his back, combing his fingers through the soft, brilliant scarlet feathers. He wrapped his arms around Brightheart's neck and buried his face in Brightheart's plumage.

We'll get them back, Brightheart repeated.

Of course we will, Creawick replied. If Kenwick thought to terrify him into submission, he had vastly underestimated Creawick—a mistake others had made, and Kenwick really should have learned from their mistakes.

Turning away from the ruins of his home, Creawick returned to his horse and swung smoothly into the saddle. They were halfway down the mountain when the numbness abruptly died, and he had to stop the horse until he could stop shaking and get his flames under control.

Nothing good ever came of losing control. His body, every single burn and scar that covered it, was a testament to that. After several minutes, Creawick finally quenched the wick thrumming under his skin, the fire aching to burst free.

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