Imdalind 01 - Kiss of Fire

knew the answer.
    “Her eyes... they are beautiful.” He smiled widely for a second before the grin faded to nothing. “They are gray like yours, but much more beautiful. They are almost silver, like diamonds.” He looked at me intently before returning to play with what I could only assume to be a car. The toy and his actions were out of place for how old he appeared, but something else was off. I couldn’t quite place it. He moved his hand around the invisible object, back and forth, back and forth, as he continued to hum.
    “Do you know why I need a new nanny?” he asked, his focus not leaving the car.
    “No, why?”
    “I scared the other one too much.”
    I didn’t miss the strong mocking in his voice.
    “Oh, really?” I smiled. “And how did you scare her?”
    “I told her what my father did.”
    “What did he do?”
    He looked up from his toy to look at me
    “Not going to tell you. You remind me too much of Jos. Besides, I like you.”
    “I like you too,” I conceded, “but you won’t scare me.”
    “Yes, I would.”
    “Try me.”
    He sat back and looked at me closely, his nose scrunching up a bit. The look made me smile; he had stopped making that face when he was about fifteen.
    “He made me kill my mother.” His voice was calm and plain, but I didn’t miss the pain behind it.
    I controlled my reaction carefully, knowing he was watching me, even though I wanted to panic. “I am sure he didn’t...” I stated what was in my heart, willing what Ryland had said to be false.
    “Yes, he did,” Ryland snapped, his voice hitting a higher octave. “He kept her locked up until I could control myself, and then he made me kill her.” He started to cry, and I instantly regretted making him tell me.
    “Why... why... would he...” I couldn’t finish. I wanted to run away; I didn’t really want to hear the answer.
    “I let out some of the Vilỳ’s when I was seven, so he locked her up. He doesn’t want anyone else to be like us.” He dried his tears and went back to playing with his car, his humming loud and broken as he cried.
    “You’re not going to leave me are you?” He didn’t look up, but I could hear the longing in his voice.
    “No.” I reached forward and ran my finger through his curls, the soft hair moving through my fingers. “I’ll never leave you.”
    “What if I asked you to?” My hand froze. His voice had deepened into that of an adult, his head still hanging down.
    “Ryland?”
    “What if I asked you to leave, Joclyn?” He looked up at me, his thirteen-year-old face looking strikingly like my Ryland, the Ryland of today.
    “I can’t leave, Ry.”
    “I’m sorry, Joclyn. But it’s too dangerous now.” His hands reached up and grasped my shoulders tightly, his small fingers digging into my skin through the sweater. With one mighty jolt he pushed me backwards. The white room disappeared as it faded into trees and sky. Ryland’s face continued to look down at me as I fell, fell away from him, fell out of the tree.
    Wind I didn’t control came out of nowhere and caught me, just as my hand hit the ground in a precursor to the impact. The wind ceased as I dropped the last foot, landing hard on my back. I grunted as I sat up, rubbing the now sore spots that had been so recently broken.
    “Ow.”
    “Yeah, I’d say so,” Ilyan spoke from behind me. “You’re just lucky I was looking for you or that would have been much worse.” He was smiling broadly, but his smile faded away as he looked at me. It was like he could see right into me and knew what I had just seen.

    Twenty-Nine

    “What did you do, Joclyn?” Ilyan asked; his voice sounded like my mother’s.
    I flinched. “Oh, you know, the usual. Got mad at your sister, threw her into a wall, and flew away.”
    “You’re not the first to do that,” he smiled, “but that’s not what I am talking about.”
    “Then what are you talking about?” The cornered teenager reflex was coming out strong.
    “What did you do, Joclyn?”
    I backed away from him as he continually stepped closer to me.
    “Pushed my magic into the necklace, even though you told me not to, shared a Tȍuha with Ryland, who was younger, by the way, and told me all about how Edmund made him kill his mother.”
    Ilyan’s face went from angry, to concerned, to furious as I spoke.
    “Is it true?” I asked softly, hoping to deflect his anger away from me.
    “Is what true?” he snapped.
    “That Edmund made him kill his