Imdalind 01 - Kiss of Fire

but clear as day. I whipped my head to the side, devastation filling me to see nothing but the gray bag. I looked back to the Lotus, desperately searching for his dark curls.
    “Ryland.” I lifted my hand and placed it on the glass of the back window. The firm, smooth, surface of the glass hot under my touch. It felt like the burn of the necklace that still pressed against my skin.
    I focused on the warmth, on the heat, the image of his face floating into my line of sight. The warmth grew, both in the necklace and in my hand. It moved into me, the heat seeping into every part of my soul. I pressed my hand harder into the glass in my desperation to see Ryland. At the increased touch the glass shattered under my hand.
    A million pieces scattered across the trunk of the car, over the road. I didn’t have time to look at it; I couldn’t be surprised. Only a moment after the glass shattered, the road behind us shifted. I screamed as the asphalt heaved itself into a giant pile, the earth moving to lift it upwards, toward the sky into a mound. The cars began to move up the increasing mountain for only a moment before they were hidden behind the large pile of asphalt, stones and earth that spanned the freeway.
    I spun around, my body aching, to face Ilyan. I expected to see him standing with his hands extending out, but instead, he remained inside the car where he had fallen, his eyes wide and staring.
    “Drive, Wyn.” His voice was calm, and awed.
    I flipped my head back to the mound of earth and back to Ilyan, wincing at the pained movements.
    “What happened, Ilyan?” I asked quietly.
    He just looked at me. The answer was clear on his face, he didn’t know.
    I turned my body around, looking toward the distancing earth pile. Behind that pile, somewhere, was Ryland. I lifted my hand to my necklace, the warmth receding. The heartbeat of scorching heat left it, leaving only a slow throbbing. I held it tightly again, still staring back out the window.
    “Did I do that?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “You’re not sure?” I rounded on him; how could he not know? I stared at him, in a panic, my throat burning, my body aching.
    “I will know soon, Silnỳ.”
    “When?”
    “Soon.” He reached forward and placed his hand against my cheek. “We will be home soon and then I will know everything. And, I will tell you; I promise.”
    “Home?”
    “Joclyn, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you know where we are going quite yet.”
    I felt the warmth of Ilyan’s magic flood through me, the numbness moving through my body and into my brain. I turned to see the last of the city flash past me before my vision blacked out and Ilyan’s magic put me to sleep again.

    Twenty

    “Just wait. You will see what I mean.”
    “I don’t have time for this, can’t it wait until later?”
    “No, Ovailia, it can’t. If he….”
    “Fine.”
    I felt the depression of the bed as someone sat down near my feet. A bed. The more I woke up, the more I could tell it was a bed. I could feel the soft and hard combination of a spring mattress made far too long ago, smell the musty stench of blankets left too long in storage. I opened my eyes, trying not to move.
    It looked like I was in an old hotel room; the décor was something out of the sixties. The wallpaper was faded and peeling in places but still had the obvious brown-on-orange striped pattern that was popular then. An orange angular lamp sat on a darkly varnished table, a hard plastic chair pulled up to the side. The look of the room explained the musty smell of the bed and the blankets; they all must have been here since the day the hotel first opened for business.
    Although the shade to the window near the table was open, the light filtering into the room was dim and filled with the blue light of dusk. Even with what came in through the window, there wasn’t much light, which was further diminished by the dark color scheme.
    “Ugh. More commercials. I don’t know if I can wait any longer.” It was the woman’s voice I had heard before. It was deep and nasally. She was irritated, and by the sound of it she was irritated all the time. Her voice held only a subtle hint of an accent, as if she had been trying to get rid of it for far too long and had only partially succeeded.
    “Ovailia...” Wyn pleaded. I could pick Wyn’s voice out now, accented or not.
    “You have another minute, Wynifred, that is all. I hate human news; it’s so boring.” Ovailia’s voice drawled out