Shadow And Flame Chronicles Book 1 Ethereal Bonds

Chapter 1

Dawn Ellery's point of view

The neon sign outside my window flickers with the persistence of a dying star, painting my skin in sickly green pulses that match the throbbing in my temples. Room 13 — because the universe isn't subtle with its omens. I press my fingertips against the lipstick-marked mirror, feeling the static electricity spark between glass and skin. Three days in Vegas, and all I have to show for it is this cigarette-stained coffin of a motel room and the terrifying knowledge that something inside me is very, very wrong.

My reflection stares back, a stranger with familiar features. Same brown-and-amber eyes, same scatter of freckles across my nose. The dragon tattoo on my back — a relic of my eighteenth birthday rebellion — itches beneath my shirt, as if responding to the memory I've been avoiding.

Four days ago, I was normal. Boring, even.

Four days ago, I didn't know I could make light explode from my body.

The memory rises like bile, insistent and unavoidable.

---

"Thirty days' notice, Miss Ellery." Mr. Finch's voice had the dull certainty of a man who thought rules made him powerful. "Building's being renovated for luxury units."

I stood in my apartment doorway, payment envelope still extended between us like an ignored peace offering. "I've never been late on rent. Not once in three years."

"Policy is policy." He refused to take the envelope, his small eyes never quite meeting mine. "Market's hot. Owner wants to capitalize."

The hallway seemed to shrink around us, the faded beige walls pressing closer. Three years of careful planning, of maintaining the low profile that kept me safe, all unraveling because some absent landlord wanted granite countertops.

"There has to be something—" My voice caught. I didn't have savings for a new security deposit. Didn't have references beyond this place. "I can pay more. I can—"

"Decision's been made." His eyes flicked to the stairwell, already mentally gone from this conversation. "Paperwork's in the envelope. Sign and return by Friday."

"You can't just—" Heat flared under my skin, a match struck against my spine.

"I can. I am." He finally looked at me then, impatience hardening his features. "Look, it's just business. Nothing personal."

Something twisted inside me, a foreign pressure building behind my eyes. "Three years, and you can't even—"

"Miss Ellery, I have other tenants to notify." He stepped back, hand already reaching for his phone. "If this becomes a problem, I'll have to call—"

"Don't you dare threaten me." My voice didn't sound like my own, a stranger's rage pouring from my throat. The pressure behind my eyes intensified, spreading through my body like wildfire, my skin suddenly too tight, too hot.

Mr. Finch's expression shifted from annoyance to unease. "Your eyes—"

I didn't hear what he said next. The building pressure exploded outward, my vision consumed by blinding white. The air crackled with electricity and something else — something that smelled like ozone and desert lightning. A high-pitched whine filled my ears as light poured from my hands, my chest, even my eyes, illuminating the hallway with impossible brightness.

Mr. Finch screamed. I might have screamed too. Through the haze of light, I saw him stumbling backward, arm raised to shield his face, features contorted in terror.

The light pushed against him like a physical force, sending him sprawling against the opposite wall. Picture frames crashed to the floor. The overhead light fixture exploded in a shower of glass and sparks.

I couldn't stop it. The light surged from me in waves, each pulse draining something vital from my core. My knees buckled. The hallway tilted. Darkness rushed in from the edges of my vision, and I welcomed it, desperate for the light to stop.

---

I woke on my apartment floor, surrounded by shattered glass and the acrid smell of burned carpet. My limbs felt leaden, my mouth desert-dry. Sunlight streamed through the window — morning sunlight, though my last clear memory had been early evening. I'd lost hours.

When I managed to stand, the room swayed like a ship in rough seas. My reflection in the hallway mirror stopped me cold — my skin glowed faintly from within, my heterochromatic eyes unnaturally bright. The effect faded as I watched, like a dimmer switch being turned, until I looked almost normal again.

Almost.

I was still staring at my reflection, trying to process what had happened, when the doorbell rang. Not a knock — the electronic chime that hadn't worked in months.

My body moved on autopilot, survival instincts momentarily overriding the terror. Through the peephole, a man I'd never seen before stood waiting, hands clasped patiently before him. Tall, with storm-gray eyes and pale skin that seemed to absorb the hallway's fluorescent light.

I should have pretended not to be home. Should have barricaded the door and called... someone. Anyone. Instead, my treacherous hand reached for the knob, a bizarre compulsion I couldn't fight.

"Miss Ellery." His voice flowed like cold honey, cultured and precise. "I believe we have something to discuss."

"Who are you?" I managed, body tense with instinctive warning.

"Someone who can help with your... illuminating situation." His smile never reached his eyes. "You're in danger, you know. That display yesterday — quite spectacular. But dangerous."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The lie felt flimsy even to me.

"The light that poured from you like a star going supernova?" His eyebrow arched. "The power that sent your building manager to the emergency room with second-degree burns? That light."

My throat closed. "How do you—"

"I can protect you. Teach you to control it." He leaned forward slightly, and the air between us seemed to darken. "You don't even know what you are, do you?"

I tried to shut the door, animal panic finally overriding curiosity.

His hand shot out, impossibly fast, catching the door and pushing back with strength that belied his lean frame. "That's very rude, Miss Ellery."

"Get out!" The words tore from my throat as he forced his way inside, the door splintering under his assault.

The pressure behind my eyes returned, my skin heating as if from fever. He noticed, his expression shifting from irritation to calculation.

"Fascinating," he murmured, advancing slowly. "You're remarkably potent for one so untrained."

Light erupted from my palms without conscious thought, a defensive surge that caught him across the chest. He hissed in pain, the fabric of his immaculate shirt smoking where the light touched him.

His face contorted, cultured veneer slipping to reveal something ancient and predatory beneath. "You'll regret that, little light."

I didn't wait to hear more. I grabbed my car keys from the hook by the door and ran, bare feet slapping against the hallway floor. Behind me, his voice called promises of pursuit that chilled my blood more effectively than any threat.

------

Now I sit in this rented purgatory, three states away from home, listening to the hum of the flickering neon and wondering how long before he finds me again. My fingertips trace the lipstick symbols I've drawn on the mirror — nonsense designs that nevertheless feel right, feel protective.

I don't know what I am. I don't know what he is. I only know that something has awakened inside me, and I can't put it back to sleep.

The Las Vegas Strip unfolds before me in a fever dream of excess — neon daggers stabbing the night sky, slot machines wailing their electronic hymns to luck, tourists stumbling between casinos like survivors of some glitter apocalypse. I walk with my shoulders hunched, fingertips still tingling with residual energy I don't understand. Three decades of ordinary existence, then suddenly I'm a human lighthouse, broadcasting my location to whatever predator decided I was worth hunting.

My reflection fragments across a hundred mirrored surfaces — casino windows, tourist sunglasses, puddles of spilled drinks. In each one, I look hunted. Dark circles under heterochromatic eyes. Hair escaping a hasty ponytail. The dragon tattoo on my back burns beneath my thin t-shirt, an ember nestled between my shoulder blades.

I didn't come to Vegas by choice. I came because it was far and because it's easy to disappear in a city built on reinvention. Now I wander its arteries of light and noise, hoping the crowds will hide me while I figure out what the hell is happening to my body.

The light surges again, unprovoked — a shimmer racing from my fingertips up my forearms before I can clench my fists and force it back beneath my skin. A woman in platform heels gives me a wide berth, her eyes lingering on my hands like she's seen something alarming.

"It's not what you think," I want to tell her. But I don't know what it is myself.

The pressure builds behind my eyes, a warning system I'm learning to recognize. Something's wrong. The casino crowd seems to shift around me, the carnival atmosphere suddenly menacing. Between the flashing lights and moving bodies, the world feels off-kilter, as if reality has slipped a fraction of an inch to the left.

I scan the crowd, breath catching as the pressure intensifies. There — across the street, beside the Roman-themed fountain. A tall, lean figure stands unnaturally still amid the flowing tourist current. Sorin. The man from my apartment, the one who forced his way in, who burned when my light touched him.

He's not alone.

Three others flank him, their stillness matching his, their attention fixed on me with predatory focus. One points in my direction, and Sorin's lips curve in a cold smile I can feel across the distance.

"No," I whisper, the word lost in the casino noise.

The light responds to my fear, crackling beneath my skin like static electricity. My vision sharpens painfully, colors suddenly too bright, sounds too crisp. A blue-white glow emanates from my clenched fists, drawing curious and alarmed looks from nearby tourists.

A woman stops, her phone raised. "Cool costume effect! Are you in one of the shows?"

I push past her without answering, my pace quickening. In my peripheral vision, Sorin and his companions have begun moving, splitting up to cover more ground as they cross the street toward me.

I run.

My sneakers slap against the pavement as I weave through the crowd, dodging between bachelorette parties and families with oversized souvenir cups. The Strip becomes a gauntlet of obstacles — street performers, casino barkers, tourists stopping abruptly to photograph the spectacle of lights.

"Pardon me, excuse me, sorry," I mutter, the words automatic as I shoulder through the human traffic, each contact sending uncomfortable sparks of light energy skittering across my skin.

Sorin's voice slides into my memory, smooth as oil on water: *You don't even know what you are, do you? I can protect you. Teach you to control it.*

Lies. His eyes had betrayed him — the hunger there wasn't protective. It was acquisitive.

I risk a glance back and immediately wish I hadn't. One of his companions — a broad-shouldered man with eyes that reflect the neon like a cat's — has gained ground, now barely twenty feet behind me. The crowd has thinned at this section of the Strip, giving him a clearer path.

My breath comes in desperate gasps, the air thick with cigarette smoke, perfume, and the greasy scent of street vendor food. Sweat trickles down my spine, making the dragon tattoo itch furiously, as if trying to crawl off my skin. For a wild moment, I imagine it spreading, scales rippling across my back in sympathy with my panic.

The light pulses between my fingers, more insistent now, responding to my fear. I clench my fists tighter, terrified of what might happen if I release it in this crowded space. The memory of Mr. Finch thrown against the hallway wall, his skin reddening where the light touched him, is still too fresh.

"Miss Ellery!" The voice comes from my left — another of Sorin's people, a woman with ash-blonde hair and the same predatory stillness. She steps directly into my path, her smile sharp and insincere. "There's no need to run. We only want to talk."

I pivot sharply, changing direction down a side street between casinos. The atmosphere shifts instantly — the tourist glitz giving way to service entrances and dumpsters. The relative darkness feels both comforting and dangerous, shadows gathering in corners where anything might hide.

My heterochromatic eyes adjust quickly, the amber one picking up details in the dimness that the brown one misses, creating a disorienting double-vision effect. The dragon tattoo burns hotter, and I swear I feel it shift against my skin, awakening to some threat my conscious mind can't identify.

Footsteps echo behind me — multiple pursuers now, their pace measured and confident. They're not rushing. They don't have to. They know these streets better than I do, know where this alley leads, know I'm running blind.

"Little light," Sorin's voice calls, closer than it should be. "You're only making this harder on yourself."

I burst back onto the main Strip, nearly colliding with a group of bachelorettes wearing matching pink sashes. Their laughter turns to startled curses as I push through them, light now visibly crackling up my arms, impossible to contain.

"Holy shit, look at her arms!"

"Is that real?"

"Someone's filming this!"

The crowd's attention is the last thing I need, but it's too late. The blue-white light dances across my skin, responding to my panic like a frightened animal. Tourists pull out phones, recording the strange woman with glowing arms. I duck my head, using my hair to shield my distinctive eyes, but the damage is done. I've created a spectacle, a trail Sorin can follow.

The pressure behind my eyes builds to a splitting headache as I push forward, past the cameras and staring faces. My lungs burn, muscles screaming from the sustained sprint. I can't keep this pace much longer.

Ahead, the Strip seems to waver, the air shimmering like heat rising from pavement. But it's night, and the desert has already surrendered its day's heat. This shimmer is different — a distortion in reality itself, visible only because my light-affected vision sees more than it should.

I don't know what it is, but it feels like hope. Like escape.

Behind me, Sorin's voice rises above the casino noise: "Stop her! Don't let her reach the ward!"

Ward? The word means nothing to me, but the urgency in his voice tells me everything I need to know. Whatever lies ahead terrifies him.

Which means it's exactly where I need to go.

The air thickens as I run, like wading through invisible honey. Each step becomes both lighter and heavier, a contradiction my body can't process. The Strip's endless noise — the slot machines, the drunk laughter, the traffic — begins to fade, not growing distant but rather thinning out, as if reality itself is being diluted. Something hums beneath the surface of the world, a vibration I feel in my teeth and bones rather than hear.

I slow despite myself, disoriented by the change. The neon signs continue their garish display, but their colors seem muted now, as if viewed through frosted glass. The tourists still laugh and stumble around me, but their voices sound hollow, underwater.

"What is this?" I whisper to no one.

My skin prickles with goosebumps, every hair standing on end. The light inside me responds to whatever unseen force lies ahead, crackling along my arms with new intensity. Blue-white tendrils dance between my fingers, no longer painful but eager, like a dog straining at its leash toward home.

A strange double-vision overtakes me — with my brown eye, I see the Vegas Strip continuing into the distance; with my amber eye, I glimpse something else superimposed over reality: a shimmering curtain of energy that spans the width of the street, invisible to the oblivious tourists who pass through it without pause.

The dragon tattoo between my shoulder blades burns with sudden heat, no longer an itch but a brand. I reach back instinctively, fingers brushing the fabric covering it, and feel the design raised like a fresh wound.

"She's approaching the ward!" Sorin's voice cuts through the muffled background noise with alarming clarity. "Intercept her now!"

I don't understand what a ward is, but the desperation in his voice tells me everything I need to know. I force my legs to move faster toward the shimmering curtain, each step sending vibrations up my spine that resonate with the burning tattoo.

The pressure in my head builds again, but differently this time — not the painful warning of my light about to erupt, but rather a sense of recognition, of something ancient inside me awakening to answer a call I can't consciously hear.

Twenty feet from the shimmering barrier, the world splits further. The Vegas noise recedes almost completely, replaced by a high, clear note that reminds me of crystal struck by silver. The air carries new scents — woodsmoke, apples, damp earth — impossible in this concrete desert, yet undeniably real.

A woman passing in the opposite direction gives me a curious look, her eyes widening slightly as they fix on mine. She's ordinary in appearance — middle-aged, sensibly dressed — yet something about her gaze feels different from the tourists'. She sees me. Really sees me, and what's happening to me.

She nods once, a gesture of recognition or perhaps encouragement, before continuing past. The brief exchange leaves me more unsettled than reassured.

The light within me pulses stronger with each step toward the barrier, now impossible to contain. It flows from my hands in spiraling patterns that leave bright afterimages in the air. Nearby tourists gasp and point, some backing away, others moving closer with phones raised.

"There!" The shout comes from behind, too close.

I risk a glance back and see Sorin and his companions pushing through the crowd, their movements unnaturally fluid, faces set with predatory focus. Sorin's eyes lock with mine, and his expression shifts to something almost like fear.

"Dawn!" he calls, dropping all pretense of civility. "Stop! You don't know what you're doing!"

He's right — I don't. But instinct drives me forward, toward the shimmering barrier that promises... what? Safety? Answers? Escape? I only know I need to reach it before he reaches me.

The barrier is just steps away when I see it — a building that doesn't belong in Vegas. Where the Strip should continue, a large structure interrupts the neon landscape. Heavy wooden doors dominate its front, carved with symbols that resemble the ones I'd drawn in lipstick on my motel mirror. Above the doors, a sign bears a stylized emblem of a motorcycle rendered in black steel.

A clubhouse, out of place amid the casino glamour, yet somehow more solid, more real than anything else around me.

"Stop her!" Sorin's voice cracks with command. "She cannot cross!"

My legs burn with exhaustion, muscles screaming against the strain of this final sprint. The light erupts from my body in pulsing waves, each brighter than the last. The dragon tattoo feels molten against my skin, as if trying to burn its way free.

Ten feet from the doors. My vision tunnels, focusing only on that wooden salvation.

Five feet. The air shimmers and warps around me, the ward's energy interacting with my own in unpredictable bursts of light.

A hand grasps at my shirt from behind — one of Sorin's companions, his fingers burning cold where they touch me. I scream, a sound of pure terror and defiance, and my light responds with explosive force. A shockwave of energy throws him backward, away from me.

I crash against the heavy oak doors with all my remaining strength, my palms slapping against the carved symbols. They respond instantly, flaring to life with the same blue-white light that courses through my veins. The doors swing inward, though I can't tell if I've pushed them or if they've opened on their own accord.

As I stumble across the threshold, the world fractures completely.

Light explodes from every pore, every cell of my body — not in the uncontrolled bursts of before, but in a single, perfect wave of radiance that engulfs everything around me. For one endless moment, I hover in a space between realities: behind me, the Vegas Strip with its artificial glare and hollow promises; before me, a great hall lit by firelight, filled with shadows and watchful eyes.

In this suspended moment, I feel the ward's magic recognize something in my blood, my bones, my very essence. It reads me like a book, pages flipping too fast to comprehend, before making a decision I can't interpret.

I fall forward into the hall as the light recedes, leaving me drained and gasping on a floor of polished wood. Behind me, the doors begin to swing closed of their own accord.

Through the narrowing gap, I see Sorin standing at the edge of the ward, his pale face contorted with rage and something that might be fear. Our eyes lock one final time.

"This isn't over, little light," he calls, his voice distorting as the realities separate. "What you are belongs to us. What you carry belongs to us. I will find you, even here."

The doors seal with a sound like the world exhaling, cutting off his final words and plunging me into the waiting silence of this unknown sanctuary.