Read Online Hearts of Fire by Kira Brady - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kira Brady
Tags: paranormal romance, Dead Glass
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condensed and solidified, feather by translucent feather. A pathway through the Aether began to shine, guiding the way home. One by one, the spirit birds flew into the sky and disappeared beyond the shimmering veil.
Rising, Hart shouldered his rifle. He slipped the Deadglass into his pocket, slid down the fire escape, and headed to the morgue. Nothing could keep him from finding that necklace. No Kivati. No wraith. He’d earn his freedom if he had to fight hell itself.
Kayla entered the dimly lit morgue and bit her lip to keep from crying. She had to hold it together. If she allowed the swelling sorrow to shatter her into a million bits, there would be no one left to pick up the pieces. Seattle, this godforsaken, desolate city, had stolen everyone from her. Her mother in a violent “accident” that Kayla only vaguely remembered. Her father from the heartbreak of it years later. Now her sister, who was shockingly, mysteriously dead. A yawning chasm opened in her chest, threatening to suck her down into the black abyss. She couldn’t let it.
Instead of harsh fluorescents, the Seattle morgue was lit with soft gaslights. A fire hazard, but the warm glow was strangely comforting. It made everything seem less real, like she’d stepped back in time.
A skinny, middle-aged woman with sallow skin manned the welcome desk. Her shirt had a vaguely Edwardian air with a short collar and lightly puffed sleeves. She was filling out forms by hand, holding the pencil awkwardly with her long pink nails. She didn’t look up when she asked for Kayla’s name. Too tired to care, perhaps.
“Friday,” Kayla said, proud that her voice didn’t shake, “Kayla Friday. I’m here to identify my ... sister.”
The woman set the pencil down and raised her head. She was younger than she had first appeared. Her salt-and-pepper hair and the weary sag of her shoulders were deceptive. “I.D.?”
Kayla fumbled with her purse to pull out her driver’s license and handed it over.
The woman eyed the Philadelphia address. “Long way from home.”
No kidding. Seattle might be a six-hour plane ride from Philly, but Kayla felt like she’d traveled halfway around the world to some war-torn, third world country where electricity was rationed. She’d never seen so many old diesel cars or broken traffic lights. Half-empty skyscrapers lorded over roads strewn with uncollected trash and abandoned vehicles. The few brave souls out on the streets of the once-great city scuttled about with creased foreheads and downcast eyes.
Desi should have taken one look at this dump and come back home, but she hadn’t. The contrary kid had liked it. She had started taking mythology classes at the university. Useless degree, Kayla thought. But for the first time Desi was excited about school, so Kayla let it slide. Until recently. In the past few weeks, Desi had grown distant. Preoccupied. She hadn’t returned Kayla’s last two phone calls.
The receptionist tapped her pencil against the desk and thinned her lips. “You took longer than you should have to show up.”
“I got the call yesterday,” Kayla protested. “Took the first flight I could.” She was going on thirty hours without sleep. The policeman’s voice haunted her, repeating those terrible words in her head: Your sister is dead.
“Dangerous to let a body sit empty and whole overnight.” The woman stood and unlocked the cabinet behind her.
Why? In her two years of nursing, Kayla had never heard of such a thing. Perhaps if Desi had died of something contagious—bubonic plague or smallpox came to mind—but then she would be quarantined.
The receptionist pulled a paper bag out of the cabinet and handed it to Kayla. “The deceased’s effects.”
Kayla licked her lips, trying and failing to say thank you like her mama had taught her. Her mouth was dry as bone. She clutched the bag to her chest, the last articles found on her sister, the only clues to solving the mystery of her
Rising, Hart shouldered his rifle. He slipped the Deadglass into his pocket, slid down the fire escape, and headed to the morgue. Nothing could keep him from finding that necklace. No Kivati. No wraith. He’d earn his freedom if he had to fight hell itself.
Kayla entered the dimly lit morgue and bit her lip to keep from crying. She had to hold it together. If she allowed the swelling sorrow to shatter her into a million bits, there would be no one left to pick up the pieces. Seattle, this godforsaken, desolate city, had stolen everyone from her. Her mother in a violent “accident” that Kayla only vaguely remembered. Her father from the heartbreak of it years later. Now her sister, who was shockingly, mysteriously dead. A yawning chasm opened in her chest, threatening to suck her down into the black abyss. She couldn’t let it.
Instead of harsh fluorescents, the Seattle morgue was lit with soft gaslights. A fire hazard, but the warm glow was strangely comforting. It made everything seem less real, like she’d stepped back in time.
A skinny, middle-aged woman with sallow skin manned the welcome desk. Her shirt had a vaguely Edwardian air with a short collar and lightly puffed sleeves. She was filling out forms by hand, holding the pencil awkwardly with her long pink nails. She didn’t look up when she asked for Kayla’s name. Too tired to care, perhaps.
“Friday,” Kayla said, proud that her voice didn’t shake, “Kayla Friday. I’m here to identify my ... sister.”
The woman set the pencil down and raised her head. She was younger than she had first appeared. Her salt-and-pepper hair and the weary sag of her shoulders were deceptive. “I.D.?”
Kayla fumbled with her purse to pull out her driver’s license and handed it over.
The woman eyed the Philadelphia address. “Long way from home.”
No kidding. Seattle might be a six-hour plane ride from Philly, but Kayla felt like she’d traveled halfway around the world to some war-torn, third world country where electricity was rationed. She’d never seen so many old diesel cars or broken traffic lights. Half-empty skyscrapers lorded over roads strewn with uncollected trash and abandoned vehicles. The few brave souls out on the streets of the once-great city scuttled about with creased foreheads and downcast eyes.
Desi should have taken one look at this dump and come back home, but she hadn’t. The contrary kid had liked it. She had started taking mythology classes at the university. Useless degree, Kayla thought. But for the first time Desi was excited about school, so Kayla let it slide. Until recently. In the past few weeks, Desi had grown distant. Preoccupied. She hadn’t returned Kayla’s last two phone calls.
The receptionist tapped her pencil against the desk and thinned her lips. “You took longer than you should have to show up.”
“I got the call yesterday,” Kayla protested. “Took the first flight I could.” She was going on thirty hours without sleep. The policeman’s voice haunted her, repeating those terrible words in her head: Your sister is dead.
“Dangerous to let a body sit empty and whole overnight.” The woman stood and unlocked the cabinet behind her.
Why? In her two years of nursing, Kayla had never heard of such a thing. Perhaps if Desi had died of something contagious—bubonic plague or smallpox came to mind—but then she would be quarantined.
The receptionist pulled a paper bag out of the cabinet and handed it to Kayla. “The deceased’s effects.”
Kayla licked her lips, trying and failing to say thank you like her mama had taught her. Her mouth was dry as bone. She clutched the bag to her chest, the last articles found on her sister, the only clues to solving the mystery of her
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