Page 22 of Heir

Zandren fell to all fours, and thick, light brown fur rippled in and out of his arms and legs as he sniffed the air. “Fire mage,” he growled.

I glanced at Omaera. Her eyes were the size of dinner plates and her mouth hung open.

“Another one?” Gemma said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Maxar Rane

Koh Tao, Thailand

Easiest fucking gig of my life.

And no matter what they paid me, no matter what they offered, I kept the mystery alive by never revealing my secret.

“But how do you do it, Mr. Maxar?” they would all ask. “How can you touch the fire like that? How can you manipulate it and swirl it? How can you put it on your tongue and in your hands and not get burned?”

Magic, bitches.

But to the tourists and locals alike, I was an attraction. Dinner entertainment on the beach as they sipped their drinks, dug their toes in the sand and watched me do more than just fire poi or the fire stick.

No, I made fire my bitch.

I wove it and spun it, condensed it, and stretched it like fucking Silly Putty until they tossed millions of Baht into my hat.

I grinned as a Thai woman I’d spent more than a few nights with walked past, serving drinks to some obnoxious tourists. I couldn’t even tell where these fuckers were from. One minute I thought it was Texas, the next minute Ireland. They were too fucking drunk to keep their accent straight.

As long as they tipped, I didn’t give a shit if they were from the fucking moon.

I winked at Busaba, and she winked back. We had a no-strings thing that suited us both just fine. And I helped keep the more handsy tourists from getting fresh with her.

She walked past me again, after delivering the beverages to her customers, and gave me a sign that two guys at the far end sitting on pillows needed to be watched. I nodded and kept doing my fire magic shit, smiling for my audience as they oohed and aahed.

“Hey, baby! Another drink, stat!” one of the men called out to Busaba. “If you want that tip, you’ll hustle those tight Thai buns.”

My nostrils flared and my body temperature went from what it was normally at—around two hundred degrees Fahrenheit—to closer to two-fifty.

Busaba nodded at the men and went up to the bar.

“Yo! Fire Boy, show us something cool. Swallow a flame or some shit.” They laughed like the morons that they were.

“Oh, you mean like this?” I asked, snapping my fingers and instantly producing a flame.

The crowd went, “Ooh!”

“That’s all smoke and mirrors. Do something that nobody can figure out how you’re really doing it,” the same cocky bastard hollered. I could see in the eyes of many other beach-goers that these two pricks were ruining the evening for everyone.

I smiled at the men and put the flame on the tip of my finger into my mouth. I closed my eyes and blew, and like steam coming out of a kettle, flames burst from my ears.

Applause thundered, echoing off the calm water.

Busaba walked past me and I kept a keen eye. She brought the men their Chang beer, setting the big bottles down on the squat table with a smile. “That’s right, baby. Give us a little wiggle.” Then the louder one pinched Busaba’s ass.

His friend chortled to encourage him. Then they were both laughing.

A red ball of fire flew from my palm like a baseball destined for the strike zone and landed square in the man’s bare chest.

He screamed, and his friend dumped his beer on his chest in an attempt to douse it.

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