Born of Fire: An Elemental Origins Novel Read online

  Born Of Fire

  An Elemental Origins Novel

  A.L. Knorr

  Intellectually Promiscuous Press

  Contents

  Praise For Born of Water

  Born Of Fire

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Born of Earth Excerpt

  Chapter 1

  Born of Water Excerpt

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by A.L. Knorr

  All rights reserved. Intellectually Promiscuous Press.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Born of Fire, An Elemental Origins Novel is registered with the Writers Guild of Canada. Registration Number: S17-00052

  Created with Vellum

  Praise For Born of Water

  “A deeply satisfying read!”

  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

  “I couldn't put it down (I read the whole book in a day).”

  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

  “Ms. Knorr is an excellent story teller.”

  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

  “This book took it to a point beyond what I expected a mermaid story to go and I highly recommend it.”

  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

  “Brain candy. I can’t say enough about this book.”

  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

  “Sucked me in and didn’t let go until the final, satisfying page.”

  Snippets taken from Amazon’s reviews page.

  Fire and Ice

  Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice.

  Robert Frost

  Born Of Fire

  An Elemental Origins Novel

  Prologue

  Nicodemo steadied the tripod and made a few last adjustments to the sound on the cameraphone. He pressed play and walked to the chair sitting in the line of focus. He sat down and scratched his head, ruffling his thin blond hair. Age had thinned his hair, thinned his power. But it hadn’t thinned his determination or the strength of his love.

  He still wasn't used to being on camera and felt self-conscious. He mused at the irony that he had committed many dangerous acts of questionable morality and a few for which he deserved eternal damnation, but stick him in front of a camera and his palms went all sweaty.

  He cleared his throat and began to speak in Italian, his voice calm and warm. He reminded himself that more than likely, this video would never need to surface. It was a safeguard, a just in case... He pushed the rest of the thought aside. He didn't want to think of the 'in case.'

  It took less than three minutes to record the final clip of the series. He watched the clip and gave a satisfied smile. It was a first take but it was good enough. It didn't need to be perfect.

  He took a deep breath and hung his head. He closed his eyes and the movie screen of his mind filled with her loving face. His heart thudded painfully. He shook the vision off.

  He booted up his laptop and downloaded the video clip. He encrypted it and put it into a zip file with all the rest. He sent the file off to his lawyer with the simple subject line: Last one. Thank you, again. Nic.

  A knock on the door of the small stone cell made him turn. The smooth, beardless face of Dante poked in. Nic remembered being Dante’s age. The world had been full of possibilities, ripe for the taking. Now Nic knew better.

  "There you are," Dante said, speaking in Italian, their mother tongue. "You haven't chickened out, have you?"

  Nicodemo allowed the teenager a smile. "No. Have you?"

  Dante opened the door all the way and stepped in, excitement visible in his face and body. "No way." His eyes fell to the tripod and then to the laptop. "What are you doing? Recording your memoirs? You're going to be fine. I won't let anything happen to you."

  Nicodemo ignored the question and powered down his computer. "You know your father would probably fire me, no pun intended, and lock you in your room forever if he knew what we were up to."

  "By the time he finds out, it'll all be over and he'll be grateful. You'll be stronger than ever and you won't have to feel the pain ever again."

  Nicodemo sighed. That was the theory of it. The risk he was taking would be worthwhile. But the pain... Would he be able to stand the pain? He turned his eyes on the boy. He was trusting his life to Dante. There was no one else he could ask, no one else who would let him risk his life like this.

  Dante was very nearly dancing from foot to foot in anticipation. Nicodemo tried not to hold it against the kid that he was so excited to watch Nic endure hours of agony. Once it was all over, he was going to owe Dante big time for pulling him back from the fires of hell.

  "Should we go over it one more time?" Nicodemo asked as he took the tripod apart and tucked it and the laptop into its leather case.

  "Nic, we've been over it a dozen times already," Dante replied. "No one is home today, the villa is empty. It's the perfect time. Everything will be all right."

  Nicodemo nodded and put the chair against the wall. He handed the laptop bag to Dante. "Put this in my suite, would you?"

  "Of course," Dante said, taking the case.

  The two left the cell together, heading down the long dark hallway. The stone floor turned to earth and the ceilings lowered. They took three steps down into a cold, dank hallway which brought them to another darker, much more medieval cell. The wall outside the cell was lined with buckets of water. Nicodemo eyed them grimly.

  The entry to the cell was so low they had to crouch to go through it. The metal door gave a grating scream as Nicodemo pushed it open and stepped through. He stood up inside the dark cell. It smelled like old urine and mouldy earth. He looked at the tempered steel door.

  Dante set the case against the wall outside the door, came through behind him and noticed him eyeballing the metal. "What? You don't think it will hold you?"

  "Doesn't matter. I don't plan on fighting it."

  He scanned the dingy cell. His eyes fell on a fluffy white pillow lying on the wooden platform which served as a bed. He picked it up and sniffed it. Lavender. He raised his eyebrows at Dante.

  "What? I'm only thinking of you. It stinks in here," Dante said.<
br />
  Dante took Nicodemo by the shoulders, startling the older man. Dante fiercely kissed first his right cheek, then his left. "I'm proud of you." He took a stopwatch out of his pocket and showed it to Nic. “Twelve hours, on the mark. I'll be back to check on you."

  Nicodemo nodded. "Let's just get this over with."

  One

  I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the plane window, and let out a big sigh. We were airborne. It was the end of a week of hell and I couldn't be happier to leave my life behind.

  "That sounded awfully serious coming from someone so young," said the lady beside me. "First time on a plane?"

  I turned to look at my seat mate. The woman had super short grey hair and was peering at me from over her glasses. She had a book open on her lap. Her expression exuded maternal warmth.

  "First time going trans-Atlantic. It's not the flight, though."

  "No?"

  "Careful, if you get me talking, I might not shut up." I turned back to the window, my warped reflection mirrored my movement. "I talk too much. Or so I'm told."

  The lady was silent for a moment. "We've got a long flight ahead of us. Why are you headed to Venice?"

  "I got an au pair position. Two little boys. I'll be there all summer."

  "Well," she said, her eyebrows lifting. "That sounds like the perfect experience for someone your age."

  "Yeah, I'm super excited about it."

  "Then why so glum?"

  I chewed my lip. Shame heated my cheeks and to my dismay, tears pricked behind my eyelids. What was it about a kind stranger that made me want to dump out all my problems?

  "I screwed up."

  "How very human of you."

  "But, I hate being a stereotype," I blurted.

  "You're a stereotype?"

  I tugged on the end of my fiery red ponytail. "I'm a redhead."

  "And?"

  "And, I have a temper. I'm a redhead, with a temper. Do you think it’s true? That red hair comes with a temper?"

  "Well, they say stereotypes exist for a reason, that there's always a thread of truth in them. A hair, if you will." She waggled her eyebrows.

  "Very punny."

  "Thank you. But no, I think we've all got a temper somewhere under the surface. Maybe it’s harder for some of us to control, but that just comes with practice. And breathing." She held up a manicured finger. "Breathing helps a lot." She closed her book and tucked it into the seat pocket in front of her. "What was this horrifying screw-up?"

  I twisted my headphone cord around my thumb. "I have two brothers. R.J. and Jack. Normally, we get along pretty good. But Jack - the younger one - he was pushing my buttons all week. He broke the clasp on my luggage, dropped chocolate on the couch which I then sat in and stained my favourite jeans, and then he hid my passport and laughed while I tore my hair out looking for it for three days."

  "How frustrating."

  I nodded. "Seriously. So three nights ago, after dinner, Dad told Jack it was his turn to do the dishes, but he went to play video games instead. I didn't notice at first because I went to pack. But then I came into the kitchen and everything was still a disaster. My mom had gone to bed with a headache and Dad was in the garage with R.J. I lost it. I was already so fed up that I just blew up." I paused, and my heart pounded as I relived the moment.

  "What did you do?"

  "I barged into his room and..." I took a breath and put my hands to my cheeks. My face felt like it was burning up. My voice hitched. "I kicked his controller out of his hands and grabbed the back of his neck, pretty hard. I picked him up and shoved him toward the door, yelling at him to pull his weight." I stopped and closed my eyes against the awful memory of what came next.

  The lady waited in silence.

  "I didn't mean to..." I cleared my throat. "He slipped on some paper. His room is always such a disaster. He fell. I mean, we both fell. But he hit the doorjamb. The sound of it... the crack..." I shuddered.

  "Was he okay?"

  "He hit it with his face."

  She grimaced.

  "He bit through his bottom lip, chipped his front tooth, and got a black eye." I rubbed my face, trying to wipe away the memory. "There was a lot of blood. I thought I was going to be sick. Not from the blood, well maybe partly, but I just..."

  "You felt horrible."

  I nodded and looked out the window into the black nothing. "I still do. My parents hit the roof. They told me I had to cancel Venice."

  "But, you're here. So what happened?"

  I turned back to her kind face. "Jack. He can be a real brat, but he's also one of the most forgiving people I know. He knew I was sorry. I didn't eat for two days. Which is really unlike me. He got my parents to change their minds. He even owned up to terrorizing me earlier in the week."

  "Sounds like a good kid."

  "Yeah, he is. Better than me."

  "I'm sure that's not true."

  "How good can I be if I can't rein in my temper and I end up hurting people?"

  "Well, Jack forgives you. Sounds like your parents do, too. Why not forgive yourself. Wipe the slate clean, and use this summer to figure yourself out? You're an au pair, now. What a perfect opportunity to practice patience and control, right?"

  "Right." In theory.

  "Put the past behind you. Learn from it, and move forward. We all make mistakes. Resolve to be better."

  My stomach clenched at the memory of Jack's bloody face. I crossed my arms and blew out a breath. "I will."

  Two

  Six-year-old boys were not supposed to look like they were four. They were not supposed to have dry, pale skin. They were not supposed to have thinning hair or bald patches, limp limbs and a protruding spine. They were not supposed to have purple smudges under their eyes.

  Isaia had all of these things. I'm no expert, but I know enough to spot a sick kid when I see one, and Isaia was one sick kid.

  My stomach had yet to settle fully and my eyes felt full of sand. But the jet-lag fell away as Isaia approached, carried like a toddler in his father's arms. My mind flashed back to the welcome letter I'd received about my host family and their sons. Cristiano Baseggio - 9, a soccer fiend with a talent for mathematics. Isaia Baseggio - 6, a sweet shy kid with a fondness for bedtime stories and Lego. Definitely no mention of illness. Why hadn't they told me that one of the kids in my care for the summer wasn't well?

  My indignation went up in smoke when Isaia turned and his eyes caught mine. My breath hitched as our gazes locked. His eyes were black as coal and grabbed me as fiercely as two desperate fists at my collar.

  Pietro's head bent toward Isaia and he kissed his son's patchy blond crown. The tender love the father expressed was heart-meltingly beautiful.

  "Sweetheart, can you greet your au pair?" his mother, Elda sat beside me on their couch. She had a soft accent, an even softer voice, and tired eyes.

  Isaia, whose gaze had not unlocked from mine, held out a hand toward me. He leaned out of his father's arms. "Madonna," said Pietro, when he realized that his son was reaching for me.

  As a reflex, I held out my arms and the boy leaned so far that Pietro had no choice but to hand him to me. My heart melted as the tiny, warm frame settled into my lap. He put his head against my shoulder the way it had been against Pietro's, and his small hand touched my cheek before he tucked his hand under his chin.

  My heart pounded. "Hello, Isaia," I said quietly, feeling anything but quiet inside. Questions flooded my brain but for once they jammed up behind my teeth instead of leaping out of my mouth. Goosebumps swept my forearms. Isaia was hot and limp in my arms, like a warm sack of bones.

  Elda and Pietro's faces were slack with shock. Elda had a palm on either side of her face, the whites of her eyes visible.

  I looked from one to the other. "Does he do this with everyone?"

  "On the contrary," said Elda. "He doesn't let anyone touch him aside from family." She spoke to Pietro in awed Italian and he sat down on the stool beside her and spoke back, so
unding just as amazed.

  Isaia looked up at me and the suffering in his black eyes clamped like a vise around my heart. My throat constricted. What was he suffering from? Why had he reached for me? A stranger. And what had this little guy done to me? I had never had an attachment to a child form so quickly before. Emotion roiled under the surface and I worked to swallow it down. I was probably just exhausted and jet-lagged, just overreacting. I realized Elda and Pietro were staring. The silence in the room felt crushing. "I think we're going to get along just fine, don't you?" I asked Isaia.

  Elda cleared her throat awkwardly and I looked up.

  "Isaia doesn't speak," said Pietro.

  "Oh!" I couldn't hide my surprise. He was mute? Another significant fact they'd left off the briefing. It occurred to me that I could complain to the placement agency about being misled. But as Isaia melted against me and I looked from one embarrassed parent to another, I pushed the notion away.

  "At least, not anymore," Pietro added.

  Elda cast her eyes downward.

  "He used to speak?" This was only getting more strange. "What happened?"

  Pietro scratched his head. "We don't know. Doctors can't explain it. We've taken him to see three different specialists." He shrugged. "He has never been strong since birth but he used to speak perfectly well. Then one day," he snapped his fingers and made a dry pop. "He just stopped."

  Elda kept her eyes on the floor. Was it me or her husband that she was avoiding eye contact with?

  "When did that happen?" I put my hand against Isaia's back, felt the hot bumpy spine under my palm.

  "He was three?" Pietro looked to his wife for confirmation.

  "Three and a half," Elda answered. Her gaze flicked to mine but not to her husband's. I had the strangest sensation that she knew something about the boy's condition that her husband didn't know. No, that’s ridiculous, I told myself. I only just arrived and I was already making assumptions about their family politics.