Ignis (Book 2, Pure Series)

Copyright 2012 Catherine Mesick

Chapter 1.

It was Sunday morning, and I was going to meet William.

           
And I was nervous.

           
A feeling of uneasiness had been growing on me steadily within the last month, and just as steadily I had pushed it aside.
 
But the feeling was stronger than ever this morning, and this time I couldn't block it out.

           
And so I hesitated before the door.

           
Things are normal now
, I said to myself sternly.
 
You no longer have visions.
 
All of that is over.

           
I
wasn't
having a vision, but there was a feeling—a barrier—something solid but invisible standing in my way.
 
The way this strange feeling overwhelmed me reminded me of how I had felt when I
had
had visions—it overpowered my senses, blotting out the reality in front of me.

           
This particular feeling warned me not to leave the house.

           
But I was determined to go—I wasn't going to let fear run my life—no matter what had happened in the recent past.

           
All the same, I couldn't help stepping quietly back to my grandmother's office at the front of the house, where I peered in through the open door.
 
My grandmother, GM, was sitting with her back to me, her head bent as she perused a letter, her long silver braid flowing like liquid silk down her back.
 
I had already said goodbye to her, but I had a strong urge to say it again—as if it would be the last time I would ever see her.

           
Don't be ridiculous
, I said to myself.
 
What could happen in a sleepy small town like Elspeth's Grove
?

           
But my own memories of a little more than a month ago rose up like an uneasy spirit to answer me.

           
I saw a livid face, burning eyes—I heard inhuman cries—

           
I shut my mind against the memory and hurried out the front door before I lost my nerve.

           
The morning was clear and cold—it was just past Thanksgiving—and a brisk wind kicked up, whipping my hair across my eyes.
 
I pulled the strands of hair away from my face carefully.

           
As I did so, I stopped, arrested by the sight of my own pale hair in the sunlight.
 
Without warning, a fleeting image from my childhood in Russia popped into my mind.
 
On a windy day, shortly before my mother's death, I had gotten my little fingers tangled in her long hair.
 
We had both laughed.

           
You are so like your mother
, GM was fond of saying whenever she was in one of her rare contemplative moods.

           
I could tell from pictures that our hair was similar—pale, blond, straight—but as far as anything else went it was hard for me to tell—I had not known my mother for very long.
 
As I pulled my unruly hair back and secured it, I wondered what advice my mother—had she lived—would have given me on a day like today—a day on which, if I admitted it to myself, I could feel death in the air.

           
I tried to close my mind to it, but the strange feeling remained.

           
I hurried on toward Hywel's Plaza, which was surrounded on all sides by trees, and as I entered the wooded area, I was struck by the eerie calm of the place.
 
There were no sounds of birds or other animals—it was as if the woods were watching, waiting for something.
 
There were no people or houses nearby, and I broke into a sudden, panicked run.

           
What do you think is in these woods
? I asked myself.
 
I found I couldn't answer my own question.
 
I just wanted to get away from the silence and the trees as quickly as possible.

           
I ran for what felt like an eternity—but was in reality only a few minutes—before breaking out suddenly upon a clearing.

           
Stretched before me was a vast sheet of ice, surrounded by a low wall.
 
A roof made of pipes and angles, supported by thick metal poles, extended protectively over the ice, and black matting had been laid down between the ice rink and the skate house.
 
The rink was brand-new and had only been open for about a week.

           
Loud, cheerful music suddenly filled the plaza, and skaters were already out on the ice.
 
All of the sound and motion was a pleasant contrast to the watchful silence of the trees.
 
As I stood looking out over the big, white sheet of ice, the sun dipped behind a thick bank of solid gray clouds, and its harsh glare was blunted, suffusing the area with a muted, gentle glow.

           
The rink was fairly crowded, and the atmosphere was cheerful, happy, relaxed.
 
And in the midst of the crowd I spotted a familiar, well-loved figure.

           
I hurried forward.

           
William turned and smiled his familiar crooked half-smile.

           
A casual observer would describe William as tall, lean, dark-haired—maybe eighteen or nineteen years old.
 
The only thing that might be said to be unusual about him were his eyes—blue was not an unusual color, but the intensity of the color in his eyes was not quite human.
 
There were other words, too, that had been used to describe him—c
ursed, damned, outcast
—words that had real, if melodramatic meaning.
 
There were still other words that described him—fantastical but real nonetheless.
 
On this particular morning my mind shied away from that last group of words—as if thinking them could somehow bring about disaster.

           
"You had me worried, Katie," William said as I reached him.
 
His voice was colored as always by an accent that I could never quite place.
 
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

           
His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of alarm in it.

           
I glanced at him sharply.
 
There were faint lines of stress around his eyes.
 
I was late, and that was unusual for me.
 
But it seemed to me that William's anxiety was over more than just lateness.
 
Or was it my imagination?
 
I decided to shrug the feeling off—I figured I was just projecting my own recent paranoia onto him.

           
"Sorry," I said.
 
"I just got started a little later than I meant to."

           
"Well, you're here now."
 
He held out his hand and we started toward the skate house.
 
"Were you worried about trying to skate today?"

           
I took his hand, marveling anew at the tingle that ran through me whenever he touched me.
 
His skin was warm, and his hand was pleasantly calloused.
 
I didn't want to think about anything but how wonderful it was to be with him.
 
As I had done for the past month, I decided not to tell him about strange feeling of dread that was almost always with me.

           
"No," I said, making an effort to be relaxed.
 
"I wasn't worried about skating."

           
A strong gust of wind swirled around us then, causing me to stop and turn toward William.
 
William slipped his arms around me, and I leaned against him.

           
There was laughter out on the ice, as skaters found themselves pushed around involuntarily by the wind.

           
We stood together until the wind died down, and then I went closer to the rink to watch.

           
I had never been ice-skating before.

           
A little girl with braids and red mittens went flying by on miniature skates, her cheeks flushed with happiness.
 
An even smaller girl with equally pink cheeks gave a tiny shriek and chased after the bigger girl.
 
I wondered if the girls were sisters.

           
The two of them seemed so happy and so normal that it was hard for me to credit my fears of only a few minutes ago.
 
Surely there was nothing dangerous in the woods that surrounded us.

           
I couldn't help shivering then.
 
I had been told something similar once.

           
That prediction had been wrong.

           
"Do you think you can do that, too?"
 
William had come up to stand beside me, and he was smiling at me now.

           
I glanced back at the two little girls who were now on the other side of the rink.

           
"I think so," I said, smiling back at him.
 
I was determined to have a good time today and to forget about my worries.

           
William took my hand again, and we turned toward the skate house.

           
As we reached the door, William stopped and looked around suddenly, as if he'd heard something.
 
His eyes narrowed warily.

           
"What is it?" I asked.
 
"What's wrong?"

           
"It's nothing," he said.
 
He gave me a reassuring smile.

           
"Are you sure?" I asked.

           
"Yes," he said.
 
"I'm positive—it's nothing."

           
I knew that William could hear things I couldn't, and I felt a flash of fear that I quickly pushed aside.
 
I told my self to relax—just because William had heard something that had distracted him, didn't mean it was something dangerous.
 
I would have to make an effort to get my imagination under control.

           
William and I continued on into the skate house and emerged minutes later with skates on our feet.

           
There was a gate in the rink that stood open, and I walked over to it.
 
The ice stretched out in front of me, white and unforgiving.

           
Now that I was about to step onto it, the rink suddenly seemed much bigger than I had realized.
 
Though the sun had gone behind the clouds, the ice itself seemed to glow faintly, as if it were pulling all available light into its depths.
 
It almost didn't seem real.

           
I was seized powerfully by nerves.

           
At the same time, I felt something like relief.
 
The fear I was currently feeling was born of the moment—it had nothing to do with the fear that had very nearly prevented me from leaving the house that morning.
 
It was a perfectly normal fear.

           
As I stared at the ice, however, figures seemed to swim under the surface—dark phantom shapes that twisted and turned, before solidifying into human form.