Page 2 of Blue Embers
“Mr. Valentyne,” she groaned, ranting as she stomped out of my room, her beige kitten heels clicking on the hard floors. “You make my life so stressful. You’re a handful, you know that? I’m too old for this.”
Her voice faded down the hall and once she was out of earshot, I couldn’t help letting out a snicker of enjoyment. The woman was good at complaining, but admittedly it was part of the reason I kept the hag around. If nothing else, she made things interesting at the manor. Walking to my bed, I descended onto the down-filled comforters and melted into the softness of my own mattress for a brief moment of relaxation before the day’s work began.
After showering and getting the last remnants of Liza off my skin, I stood myself in front of a fogged mirror and cleared the glass. I was about to shave, but the scruff that framed my mouth gave my jaw a sharpness that I decided to sport for a while. Smirking at my reflection, I threw on a blue, button-up shirt and a pair of dark grey jeans.
As I walked out of the bedroom, I rolled the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows and descended the steps into the sitting room. Glass walls provided a view of thick banana trees that were dominating most of the back yard. White sofas circled a marble coffee table where a small fountain made of marble spheres trickled water. I passed it, coming to a door that led down another flight of stairs into a basement. Down below, multiple computer screens were set up along metal desks with an array of printed photos, maps, projectors, and various research and data collections. All of it had to do with a rebellion that had moved uncomfortably close to the sectors recently.
“Malisa,” I called through the manor. Immediately I heard her aggravated tone mumble from across the house. “Breakfast please, love.”
No sunlight made its way down into the basement. The center was lit with fluorescent, overhead lights and glass walls that glowed faint violet as soon as I entered. Taking a deep breath, I stood myself in front of one of the long, aluminum tables over a project I hadn’t revisited in a couple of months. Perhaps with some time away from it, new ideas would come to mind. That was the theory, anyway.
On a little, metal stand covered in a small glass cylinder was a black shard of material given to me by Draven Tempest. He was a Red. An Ash Bringer and the strongest of my race. Not only that, but he was the Archon. A genetic alpha that unified the entire Draak species. If he was subdued for even the smallest amount of time because of the material in front of me, the Draak were going to have problems. Somehow, that little sliver of matter had been partly to blame for his brother’s death and might have been the reason for countless other slayings that we didn’t even know about. I leaned on the edge of the table, biting my lip and glaring at the obsidian bullet.
“Alright,” I spoke to it. “You’ve been a thorn in our side for too long. How can you help us now?”
I pulled the glass cover away and set it aside, picking up the bullet to turn the little thing in my fingers. Phyre Glass. A dark substance from a time before Draak even came to Earth. It was created by the Zephyre, the mother race to the Ash Bringers and therefore to all Draak descended from them. I stared at the way the black reflected faint colors of green, red, and blue in the light, cursing its morbid beauty. Of course, I wasn’t sure what else to do to the thing, even after having a few months to think on it. I was supposed to be the brains and here I was at a loss. I was holding an engineered material created by the Zephyre to do one thing. Kill Draak.
Sighing, I set the bullet down again, hoping something would uncover a clue as to what we were dealing with before the rebels used it and other advanced weaponry against the Draak. Mainly the Falcons, a group of rebels that had been gaining strength rapidly over the recent years. My first concern was how much of the glass they had in their possession, but my connections with the black market weren’t getting me too far. No one was trading the stuff and there had been no further moves made by the Falcons since the attack months ago. So, at a bit of a standstill, I was stuck repeating processes and hoping for results.
“Let’s dance,” I muttered at the damn shard.
Three hours into a day where I was once more hitting deadends, I decided to venture upstairs again. While Malisa had finally brought me breakfast, my stomach was hungering for something better suited to my elegant palate. I put the bullet back under its glass confines and made my way out of the basement, locking the laboratory door behind me.
In the kitchen, I found Malisa already hard at work preparing quail with a side of kale and red potatoes as well as a raw spinach and strawberry salad made with greens from the gardens out back. I smiled at her as soon as I entered, eyeing her in a silent request to pardon me for annoying her that morning. She grimaced with that sour face of hers, pursing her lips, but as soon as I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her plump waist, she giggled, patting my cheek with forgiveness.
“It smells delicious,” I said, kissing her head before I turned and took a seat at the round table in the dining room. She already had the salad set out and a wine glass filled with my favorite pinot noir. “I’m sorry you have to hire a new girl for me,” I said, taking a sip of the aromatic, red wine. “You know I’m just picky.”
“The pickiest,” Malisa groaned, opening the oven to pull out the tray of quail that she’d been baking in rosemary. She began making a neat plate of food for me and walked the steaming meal my way with pride. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Because I’m handsome,” I said as I breathed in the tantalizing spices that rose up from the food. I dug in before she’d even withdrawn her hands, taking a big bite of seasoned, steamed potatoes. “Eat with me,” I said, mouth full.
Malisa walked back to the kitchen, raising a brow at me when she turned around holding her own plate of food. She took a seat across from me, eating her quail breast with her hands. She wasn’t afraid to be sloppy. It was reason number two for why I loved the old woman. She was a feisty form of entertainment.
“Any progress downstairs?” she asked, wiping her mouth with her apron.
“Not much,” I shrugged, taking a bite of the juicy, roasted quail. “The rebels are keeping things pretty quiet for now. I’ll have to report back to Draven and Lukan again with very little to contribute.”
“How strange,” she muttered under her breath.
We sat in silence for a while, both of us more hungry than we thought. Now that food was on the table, it was about the most enjoyable moment of the day trying to get it in our bellies.
Malisa licked her fingers, finishing her meat. “By the way,” she said. Reaching into her apron pocket, she pulled out the small, digital device that she carried around to take care of my business requests. Swiping the glass screen awake, she slid the device toward me. “I already have a few girls up for discussion. All of them are escorts, but of course, I did all the background checks for you. Those three are your choices.”
“That was quick,” I said, putting down my fork to review the potentials. “There was no rush, you know. Perhaps a break from the ladies would do me good.”
“Having another person around once in a while gets you off my back.” She waved her hand dramatically. “Maybe I’ll actually get some work done around this oversized house.”
I laughed, looking over the profiles of the three women she deemed worthy of my employment. The first was a voluptuous young girl with round features and big, doe eyes that looked like a doll. The next was a slender lady with a soft, classic face and a crimson head of hair that gave her a unique edge. The last was a dark-skinned woman with perfect, almond eyes and full lips I could already imagine all over me. I saw a certain depth to her gaze that drew me in. Not that depth was what I was looking for, but I didn’t want an absent-minded robot either. I slid the device back toward Malisa and picked up my fork.
“This one,” I said, scooping up a bite of kale.
“Thought you’d say that,” Malisa replied.
“Really?”
“I had a hunch. She is the opposite of Liza, so…” she sighed. “Cora Spencer. She’s a fan of classic literature and poetry. I’ll have her come by before I leave for my reading group on Tuesday.”
“That’s that thing where a bunch of old women sit around talking about books they’ve read, right?”
