Magic of Fire and Shadows (Curse of the Ctyri Book 1)

  Magic of Fire and Shadows

  Curse of the Ctyri Book 1

  Raye Wagner & Rita Stradling

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Curse of the Gods

  The Deception Dance

  About Raye Wagner

  Also by Raye Wagner

  Raye’s Acknowledgments

  Rita’s Acknowledgments

  Magic of Fire and Shadows

  by Raye Wagner and Rita Stradling

  Copyright © 2018 All the Words

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, media, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Edited by Krystal Wade and Dawn Yacovetta

  Cover Design by Covers by Combs

  All rights reserved.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  1

  Vasilisa

  Vasilisa folded the letter from Prince Nikolai, the worn creases collapsing on their own accord, and sighed. She pressed a hand to her chest where the ache of his absence had dulled but not completely disappeared. She dropped the last letter onto the scattered stack of envelopes on her bed and frowned at the frayed green ribbon she’d used to bind the notes. How foolish the daydreams of her childhood seemed now; the hollowness in her chest was more likely from missing her father than the heir of Beloch.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Vasi,” she whispered to the empty room.

  A knock at the door startled her, and Vasi gathered up the time-worn letters. “Brida, if that’s you, you’re welcome to just come in.”

  Brida stuck her head through the doorway. The worry lines puckering the young maid’s brow made her appear older than eighteen. “The mistress is home askin’ for you. Said to meet her and Roza in the solar for tea, straightway.”

  “Of course,” Vasi said, examining her maid. “You look upset. I hope she wasn’t harsh with you again. Do you want me to talk with her?”

  Brida’s gaze went wide, and she shook her head, causing strands of hair to fall from her messy bun. “Oh, no, please. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, miss.”

  “All right, if you’re sure.” Before Brida could leave, Vasi asked, “Are we having raspberry trifle today?” Her stomach rumbled, confirming Vasi’s hunger, and she rushed to explain, “A djinn passed this way, and I followed his trail through the woods for hours.”

  “A djinn passing this way? Celestials forbid.” A familiar amusement lifted in Brida’s tired gaze. “Well, Cook made yer favorite. Best hurry now so you don’t miss out.”

  Vasilisa scooted to the edge of her bed, her emerald silk skirt rustling over the beige coverlet. “I’ll be right there. Thank you, Brida.”

  The maid closed the door, and Vasi glanced at the bed for her gloves and then wondered if she’d left them outside. No matter. She tied the ribbon around the envelopes and muttered, “Really, I should just throw you all away.”

  Prince Nikolai had been gone for five years now and, as the heir of Beloch, wouldn’t indulge the attention of a tradesman’s daughter when he returned. She knew better, but even so, she tucked the notes into the drawer as she pulled out a fresh pair of gloves and then headed to tea.

  Vasi frowned as she crossed through the dim great room. The fire lay unlit, despite the chill of the gloomy afternoon, as well as the candelabras on the mantle where the portrait of the Phoenix Fire hung. Vasi stopped and blinked at the thick stone ledge, frowning when she saw the heavy silver candlesticks were missing. One of the servants must be polishing them, but they should have left a replacement. The room was far too dark. Practically uninviting and nothing like the memories of her childhood.

  Stepping into the bright solar, Vasi froze on the threshold as irritation and hurt thumped in her chest. Vasi’s stepmother, Marika, didn’t look up as she poured tea . . . into two cups. Across the table sat her daughter, Vasi’s stepsister Roza, in the only other seat at the table, taking a dainty bite of raspberry trifle.

  “Good afternoon, Stepmama, Roza,” Vasi said, forcing a smile as she crossed the room to join them. She grabbed one of the chairs away from the wall and pulled the wooden seat to the table. “Was Mistress Svad able to get you in for a fitting in time for Lady Granth’s party next week?”

  “You’re late.” Marika frowned, the paint around her lips creasing with the expression, but the dark-haired beauty didn’t even look at her stepdaughter while filling the second cup. “All of Rizy knows tea is served at three o’clock sharp.”

  Vasi gripped the back of the wooden chair and pushed down her irritation. “Growing up, we always had tea whenever Cook had it ready.”

  “Not anymore. I will civilize this household if it kills me. Tardiness is akin to rudeness, and it won’t help your prospects.” Marika set the teapot down and regarded Vasi. “A simple apology will do.”

  Vasi took a deep breath and, swallowing her pride, curtseyed low. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

  Marika harrumphed and then nodded. “I’m glad you could join us.”

  The words felt empty to Vasi, but she tucked her auburn hair behind her ears and sat at the table. Plucking a scone from the tiered tray, she set the biscuit on her plate and attempted to think of something cordial to say. “Were you able to find a dress? My mother always said that as the capital, Rizy boasts the best seamstresses in all of Beloch.”

  The Viscountess stirred her tea, the skin around her eyes tightening. She smiled at Vasi, but the expression held no warmth. “A beautiful red silk. Thank you for asking.” Marika sipped at the concoction and then accepted the plate from Roza. “Both of you girls are so grown up and pretty.”

  Roza beamed at the compliment, her ivory skin flushing with pride. “Thank you, Mama.”

  Marika took a bite of her sandwich and merely nodded at her daughter.

  “Roza is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” Vasi said truthfully with a smile directed at her stepsister.

  Without acknowledging the compliment, Roza looked away.

  Vasi couldn’t help the awkwardness churning inside her stomach as if she’d said the wrong thing. The three women ate finger sandwiches and sipped their afternoon tea in silence.

  Vasi’s father, Casimir, had warned her, and for the thousandth time in two years, Vasi reminded herself: It will take time for a blended family to adjust. Vasi was trying, just as she’d promised her father, but she couldn’t help the wistful ache when she thought of her mother’s kindness.

  “
Have you heard from my Papa?” Vasi asked. “Do we know when he’ll be back from Temavy?”

  Marika said nothing for a long moment, but her dark eyes flashed, and then she turned her full attention to Vasi. “Darling Vasilisa, I can’t wait for his return, either. Unfortunately, the last I heard, negotiations are dragging on, and it will be several weeks still. We’ll just have to entertain ourselves as best we can until he returns.”

  Marika’s words hit Vasi like a physical blow. Several weeks? Scuttling unease crawled down her spine as she thought of weeks more of this. She picked at her food, her appetite having run off with her hope of her father’s prompt return, and she tuned out the chatter between Marika and Roza. The longer Vasi thought about her father, the worse she felt because when Casimir was gone, nothing was right—

  “Vasilisa,” Marika said, her voice high-pitched and breathy.

  Vasi startled at her name, her attention returning to the room and its occupants.

  “I have something I want to tell you, so please stop daydreaming for just a few minutes.” Marika smiled and clapped in apparent excitement, but the remaining tightness of her features belied her emotions as she stared at her daughters.

  “Of course, Stepmama.” Vasi clutched her napkin and absently picked at the embroidered hem, her unease shifting to inexplicable dread.

  “I’ve considered waiting until Casimir returns, but you’re both of age to marry. The season is coming up, and I think that it is high time we present you at a royal ball.”

  Vasi’s jaw dropped, and her mind blanked. “Suitors?”

  “A royal ball?” Roza exclaimed, her eyes bright. “Present . . . us?”

  Marika nodded, her eyes narrowing when she turned toward Vasi. “What? You don’t want to go to a ball?” The older woman’s painted lips curled into a sneer. “You don’t want suitors? I think you, a tradesman’s daughter, would feel honored to be included with my Roza. You could be married next month if we are lucky—”

  “No,” Vasi said, standing up. She dropped her napkin on the cream cushion, sick with disappointment and hurt as her world tilted and rolled at an unfamiliar slant. Vasi turned to leave the room. “I will not get married. Not until my father is back. I refuse.”

  “Vasilisa, do not walk out of that door,” Marika snapped.

  Vasi froze. Her heart pounded, and she clenched her clammy hands into fists. Her mouth was dry, and her eyes burned with unshed tears. She was not ready for marriage. Not . . . yet.

  “You’ll not be allowed to live here forever,” Marika said. “You need a husband to support you and a home of your own. You cannot continue to be a drain on our resources. You need to look at this realistically and practically. A man will support you, provide for you, and adore you. If you choose wisely, you can have anything you want. Your wishes to the djinn are vain imaginations. It’s time for you to grow up.”

  “No,” Vasilisa said, hot indignation burning through her as she faced her stepmother. Even if everything Marika said was true, and Vasi didn’t believe it was, she would not marry. Not now. “I would rather die a pauper than get married without Papa.” She took a deep breath and stated the certainty to which she clung. “You can’t force me.”

  Vasilisa stormed out of the solar with her stepmother shouting after her. That Marika would want Vasi to marry was understandable, but why now? No way. And the snide comment about djinn . . . Vasi slowed her pace as she approached the great room, the sound of a man’s voice carrying down the hall.

  “Put them in the carriage,” he said.

  Vasi ran forward, unable to place who was speaking, and skidded to a halt as she took in the scene.

  A burly man in an ill-fitting doublet and hose hefted swaths of bright fabrics, trudging his way out the open door to a waiting carriage. Vasi’s surprise twisted into confusion; that strange man was carrying an armful of dresses. Her dresses.

  She turned to the only other occupant of the room and stepped back.

  Lord Emeroi Baine faced her, his gaze traveling the length of her body before meeting her eyes. Vasi had seen the Tsar’s nephew around the palace, but her father had always refused to make an introduction.

  The young duke wet his lips, and hunger heated his umber gaze. “Vasilisa.”

  Lord Baine’s face could’ve been chiseled from stone by a master sculptor, perfectly symmetrical with high cheekbones and a square jaw. Though the duke’s looks should have made her heart flutter, Vasi felt nothing but disgust with his obvious interest. His dark eyes burned with desire that made her skin crawl.

  “Your Grace,” Vasi said, dropping into a perfunctory curtsey, just what etiquette demanded. She turned to leave, following an instinctive urge to be anywhere but in the Duke’s presence, and then remembered what she’d just seen. Twisting back toward the duke, she asked, “What are you doing with my dresses?”

  A slow smile spread like oil over his face. “You mean my dresses. I’ve just purchased them.”

  “Wh-what?” In a heartbeat, her shock melted into a pulsing rage. She stomped toward him, hands clenched as her heart thundered against her ribs. “You’re buying my clothes? That’s . . .” Hideous. For so many reasons. “You can’t do that.”

  He chuckled, pulling a small leather bag from his belt. “You’re wrong, Vasilisa. I can. And I did.” He glanced over the top of her head and down the hallway. “Ah, Marika. Your payment is here.”

  Vasi rounded on her stepmother. “You can’t do this. Those are my clothes you’re selling.” She pointed in the direction of the door, raising her voice with every word. “You can’t sell my things!”

  Marika closed the distance between her and her stepdaughter in long, purposeful strides. As soon as she stood in front of Vasi, the older woman raised her hand and slapped Vasi across the face. “How dare you humiliate me in front of His Grace.”

  The room hushed, and Vasi brought her hand up to cover her cheek, the pain of the strike progressing from sting to hot burn beneath her hand. She stared with her mouth agape at Marika and then Lord Baine, whose eyes sparked with interest at the spectacle.

  Marika’s features morphed into rage, and she snapped, “They became my things when I married your father. Everything in this house is mine.”

  Vasi glared at her stepmother. “That’s not right.”

  Marika shrugged, but the tight smile and vicious light in her eyes spoke volumes as to her true feelings. “That’s the law. I don’t answer to an ungrateful, spoiled brat.”

  “When my father returns, I’ll tell him about this invasion of my privacy.” Vasi’s mind reeled. There was no way Casimir would let this stand. Her father would never sell her things or demand she marry.

  “Oh, stop this childish blathering. This is my house,” Marika said, grabbing Vasi’s wrist and yanking her hand away from her face, demanding Vasi’s attention. “And you will do what I say.” Marika tightened her grip. “If you don’t want to marry, fine, but you’ll no longer be a burden on my resources. You can contribute to our household”—she swept her other arm out toward the door—“or leave.”

  Vasi blinked at her stepmother, unable to process the last half hour in a way that made any sense. Leave? There was nowhere for Vasi to go. Was this Marika trying to call Vasi’s bluff? Did Marika plan on selling all of Vasi’s belongings? Her Papa was only gone for negotiations and would be returning soon, a few weeks or a couple of months at most, certainly not much longer than that. She raised her chin to her stepmother. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my home, and I’ll stay until my papa gets back. Then you’ll see who is a burden.”

  Marika’s laughter was shrill and sharp. “Foolish girl. You will be the one to see. I’m the mistress of the house, not you. You want to refuse to marry to defy me? Fine. We’re down a servant in the kitchen. If you want to stay so bad, you can help out there until your father returns, and then he’ll marry you off.”

  “Your threats don’t frighten me. Work in the kitchen? Fine. I won’t even complain about it.” She wren
ched her arm away from Marika. “But I hate you.”

  “Unbelievable.” Marika laughed again and then held her hand out to Lord Baine. “Do you see what I have to put up with, Your Grace? It’s no wonder I need a little assistance.”

  The duke dropped the purse of coins, his lecherous gaze flitting over to Vasilisa. “If you decide to run away, you’re always welcome at my estate.”

  Vasi would rather live in the woods of the Ctyri and risk a run-in with Baba Yaga or the djinn. “Never.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Never is a long time, Vasilisa.”

  Even so, in the five minutes of her acquaintance with the Duke of Strasny, Vasi knew all of Ctyri would fall before she would willingly go to him for aid. “I meant never, Lord Baine.”

  Marika gasped, her hand flying up for another slap, but Lord Baine grabbed her wrist.

  “I’m not offended . . . yet,” he said, still staring at Vasi. He released Marika’s wrist.

  “Get out of here, girl,” Marika snapped, shoving Vasi toward the back of the house. “Go help prepare supper if you want to eat anything tonight.”

  Vasi didn’t care that Marika was giving orders; Vasi wanted to leave. She stepped toward her room, slowing when she heard the duke’s next words and then glanced over her shoulder.

  “The princes return tomorrow, and Nikolai made an official request she be at the ball.” He nodded toward Vasilisa, grinning when he caught her eye, and then said to Marika, “Here is your stamped invitation.”

  Lord Baine handed an envelope to Marika. She snapped the seal and pulled out a thick gilded piece of paper, her lips twitching upward.