TRUE (A Fire Born Novel Book 3)

  The world is a still and quiet place when you're dead.

  The grind of stone on stone touches my dormant ears, and soft candlelight peeks through the slightest of crevices above me, warming my cold face. Bones creaking, my body shifts gently to the side, twisting through darkness, as the rich aroma of melted wax wafts over me. The sweet tinge of vanilla candles. There must be hundreds just beyond my tomb. I wonder who put them there, how they stay lit.

  The spiciness of gardenia petals flits through my resting place, too, sharp and intoxicating as ever. They are perfectly pristine flowers, I remember, yet so delicate—they bruise too easily.

  The soft, protective embrace of feathered wings catches my weakened sight through the widening rift overhead, protecting me in shimmering cream and gold plumage. I don't know how long I've been here, buried underneath this heavy slab in the frigid cold of The City of The Dead, but I know MacCoinnich is near me. I feel his heat emanate through the stone, the warmth of his undying love, even in death, fills me with hope in the dark. I remember us. I remember him. All the time in the world could not make me forget. All the time in the world could not make me forget what has been taken from us—or who has taken it.

  Reviews for TIED, Book 1 in the Fire Born trilogy

  “The author has taken a unique concept and created a brilliantly written story. One of my new favorite fantasy books.”

  — The Reading Diaries

  “I was so engrossed in this story that real life went on without me being aware of it.”

  — Crazy Four Books

  “In the midst of games between parallel worlds, past and present, interrupted by visions and ancient prophecies, you are caught up in the story’s threads.”

  — Mythical Books

  Reviews for TORN, Book 2 in the Fire Born trilogy

  “I couldn’t put this one down and I didn’t want to. It’s amazing. I want more. So much more.”

  — Happy Tales and Tails Blog

  “Goodreads doesn’t go up to 11 and that will need to be the scale by the time we’re through with this tale.” — C. Brown

  “Torn grabs you by the throat and holds on ... the book is a real thrill that carries you through an entire spectrum of emotion and leaves you right on the eve of something monstrous. Yes, yes, pun fully intended. Because the talons really come out in this one.” — Alexander Nader

  TRUE

  Published by Jagged Lane Books

  Copyright © 2015 Laney McMann

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, locations, or any other element is entirely coincidental.

  Print ISBN 978-0-9963295-0-7

  MOBI ISBN 978-0-9963295-1-4

  First Printing: September 2015

  For M.R. ~

  Ta níl aon tine gile ná mise.

  TRUE

  LANEY MCMANN

  BOOK THREE OF THE FIRE BORN NOVELS

  Jagged Lane Books

  1

  LAYLA

  White flurries fell from the sky, sticking to tree limbs, brittle green leaves, and the chill bumps accumulating across the surface of my bare arms. The ground underneath my feet, a mostly indistinct wash of brown, was blanketed in tiny snowflakes reflecting the dull light bleeding through the thick overgrowth. They crunched underfoot as I walked in a daze, creating the only sound in the silence of the Otherworld forest.

  The tiny glass vial remained gripped in my fist, the residue of the memory washing potion sticky on my fingers and lips. I'd managed to spit most of it out, once I was out of sight of my mother and grandmother, but it still wasn't enough. I'd already started to see things that I knew weren't real.

  Bitterness sat on my tongue, the familiar taste of freshly mown grass and bile. Nausea anchored itself in the back of my throat. If I could make my eyes stop rolling upward into my head, I'd be able to stay focused on my feet, maybe concentrate enough to figure out where I was going. I couldn't remember.

  The Tuatha Dé Guard escorted me through the Wood, I thought, a uniformed sentry on each side, but neither had spoken to me or to each other. It has to be the Guard. Who else would it be?

  Squinting, I tried to focus on the crest sewn in green thread on their lapels. It was a mismatch of woven lines I couldn't make out, but I was fairly sure there was a cauldron. The Guard had been with me when I left the Infirmary. When I'd left my grandmother, my mother, and Justice. Just before I'd put the potion into my mouth and everything stopped making sense.

  Pretty white snow flurries kept drifting by, and I found it impossible not to watch them—the various shapes and sizes, all different as if they'd been cut out by hand with scissors. It couldn't be snowing, though. It didn't get cold enough in the Otherworld for snow. Sweat beaded across my forehead despite the chill, and images of the Crone sped through my thoughts in a discord of deafening caws. A veil of darkness and white masked my surroundings, my vision, making everything dim, indistinct, and wrong. As though I was seeing the world through a grainy black and white T.V. screen.

  My hands seared, the tips of my fingers sending sparks onto the forest floor. Streams of smoke spiraled into the sky, the damp underbrush dousing the embers before they could ignite. I reached for my wrists, massaging the areas where my Oghams burned like white-hot coals, curling onto themselves as if serpents burrowed underneath. Unfurling into long, angry green lines, they coiled again and tightened. Danger. I glanced toward the sentries. What danger?

  Snowflakes hit my nose, my cheeks, and I lifted my head, watching them drift through the treetops, the black sun looming above. Thoughts and memories swirled and muddled together. A blast of cold wind hit me full in the face, and settled in my bones, the chill feeding a deep, shivering ache through my veins. My feet continued lifting themselves off the ground, legs moving my body forward. Tree limbs reached out, flanking my sides, but it was hard to tell with my vision clouding, breaths coming out unevenly, world starting to shift. Strong hands supported my shoulders and guided me on, keeping my body upright. They had to be hands.

  Where is Max? Hadn't he promised me he wouldn't leave? Whispered it to me. Whispered something important. He told me not to forget. What was it?

  Looking down, my hands blurred in front of my face, my fingernails, chipped and broken. One was bloody. Did I do that? With weak knees, I found it difficult to walk properly anymore—my arms too heavy to hold up, legs continuing to move with little volition as if they were operating on autopilot. In a cloud of grey, the Shadow Realm gates loomed through the dense underbrush.

  Scrolling iron finials rose up as I neared. The trees flanking them grew out of the ground like black claws. Limbs twisted from the gruesome canopy above as if reaching for me, taunting me, calling and whispering to me to walk through, underneath the ghastly awning, up to the gates. Beckoning me.

  A sharp screech touched my ears, and a white raven flew overhead. Perched on a low-lying tree branch, it cawed again, bobbing its head up and down. Its black eyes seemed to search mine. I tripped through the tangle of outstretched roots covering the forest floor but managed to keep my gaze on the bird. White? Blinking, I tried to refocus. I'm definitely seeing things.

  Someone grabbed my arm, and the sensation traveled ov
er my skin like a slithering crawl. I yanked away, my breaths staggering. Where am I going again? An echo sounded around me, shouts reverberating in my ears, someone calling my name, and the caw of the raven continued. I reached for my wrist.

  Where is my bracelet? It isn’t here. Someone took my bracelet from me.

  Heat rushed up under the surface of my skin. Red streaked across my sight, anger rearing, and I yanked further away from the guards' grasp, stumbling. My hands blurred in front of my face again, their wake leaving a flesh colored streak through the air, moving in slow motion. On another step, my knees buckled and hit the moist ground, my head so heavy, my body couldn't support its weight any longer. The glass vial rolled off my fingertips.

  Someone shouted my name again. A hand gripped my shoulder, heaving me up to my feet, but I was fighting, and falling. Falling through the strange voices, the awful, bitter taste in my mouth, the memories that couldn't be memories, and the blur of falling snow and black roots.

  The sweet sound of Max's voice reverberated in my head, telling me he was sorry. That he wouldn't leave me. I saw him sitting across from me in the Crossroads Cafe, heard his words in my head. “You are a part of me, Layla. Being away from you feels like ripping my soul out. I can’t function without you. Do I want you?” His voice grew low and soft. “It goes way past want.” He'd leaned forward, eyes alight, and brushed my mouth with his. “I’m all in. I’m sorry if you ever thought I wasn’t.”

  He loves me. He would never leave.

  Benny bowed in front of me at my mother's house, her duffle bag swinging across her back as she stomped up the steps toward the guest room. She said that she went wherever I went, but she wasn't with me. Why isn't she with me? Benny goes where I go. That's what she said.

  I remembered Justice arguing with me as I left the Infirmary, telling me he'd taken an oath to protect me. “I can’t let you do this," he'd said. "It goes against everything I am to let you leave alone. I took an oath.”

  An oath. He said he couldn't leave me alone—but I am alone. Completely alone.

  One by one my memories—all of my cherished memories—seeped through my thoughts and flitted away, melting into oblivion as quickly as they'd come. My life raced before my eyes. I couldn't make it stop—couldn't slow it down. Everything was fading.

  Cara streaked through my thoughts. Her little face scrunched in anger. Fierce and protective at only ten years old. Cara missing. Taken. Trapped. Imprisoned. The memory sat there, stuck in my head. Only ten years old. Ten.

  The same age I was when I died. No. When Teine died. Not me, not Layla. Teine.

  But Teine is you. That's your name.

  The realization glared at me, shouted at me, as I remained staring at the freezing forest floor. Teine died. In another world, another place and time. You died. This is just another body.

  I died.

  Shouts cascaded like watercolors through my brain. Deafening cries from another life. A life that had ended too quickly. Abruptly. My life. Ripped away from me before my time was due. Too young. Cursed to be reborn over and over again, and to what end? What was the point? I couldn't remember. Didn't know. Where am I going again?

  I saw my mother standing at the base of the castle in Mag Mell, straightening the pleats of my pretty yellow dress, beads of sweat rolling down my neck as she placed pristine white gloves on my hands. As I'd entered the golden doors of the castle, MacCoinnich, the most beautiful boy I had ever seen, peeked at me from behind one of the wooden pews lining the massive entry to the fortress. His smile and light grey-eyed gaze warmed my bones and set my frazzled nerves at ease. He loved me then—in that second. That instant, he loved me. I could see it.

  From the recesses of my mind, a place I didn't understand, couldn't grasp, I remembered MacCoinnich bowing to one knee, asking for my hand, promising himself to me, as his mother, the Queen of the Ancient Fire Born, stood by her golden throne, the King next to her, proud grins upon their faces. Is that my memory?

  The vision warped, and the sharp, acrid smell of a burning city overwhelmed me. My city. Mag Mell. Falling to ruin at my feet. Angels cried overhead as I stood in the bowels of a fiery castle terrified and alone, unable to move, or yell, or fight. My own aunt had done that to me. Auntie Macha, whose flock of black crows would follow me through the city streets, cawing above my head, protecting me as a little girl. But the crows had disappeared the day the castle fell, nowhere to be seen or heard as the flames swallowed the city whole. Jealous and full of hatred, my aunt had destroyed everything. Out of envy. Because of me. Because of a ten year old child. I'd only been ten years old.

  Blackness pressed in. The scene switched again. I was entombed, buried forever in the cold, dark mausoleum, hidden amongst ancient oak trees in The City of The Dead. Buried forever in the middle of the Otherworld forest. MacCoinnich's body rested only feet from my own in his burial chamber, the gold and cream wings of our angels enfolding us in safety. Still protecting us after death.

  After we died.

  I stared into the distance, not seeing anything except the white flurries tracking across my sight. We ... died. No, not me, not Layla, Teine. Teine died. Her memories, not mine, not Layla's. You are her.

  "The Princess grows stronger." My head whipped to the side, breaths racing as the Otherworld forest whirled back into view, throwing me further off balance. "She is starting to see." The sound of Agrona's unmistakable scrawling tone caught me off guard.

  My gaze narrowed, zoning in and out, toward a clump of underbrush, the vision of tombs fading into the back of my brain, as the banshee's spidery form came into full view. Sprawled on all fours in her customary scurry, hands and feet black from the forest soil, she rose to stand in front of me, a sideways grin on her lopsided mouth.

  "The Princess needs something."

  "Agrona." My voice slurred, and I found myself glancing at the guards who seemed alarmed, but stood their ground, still keeping me upright.

  The banshee bowed low like she had so many times before. "They cannot see as the girl sees. Only trees and shadows. Agrona brings the girl what she needs. Still helps the girl. Always helps."

  "I ..." I swayed, and the guards' arms tightened on my shoulders.

  "The girl must behave as a Queen would. Must possess the tools to help her overthrow what is coming. Her Oghams are not enough. She feels their power wane." The banshee scurried forward and held out her hand. "A split soul cannot rest. United the parts must be." The slight sheen of silver glittered as she placed something hard and smooth into my hand. "The girl's this is now. Of the Demon Gods. She must use it or the cycle cannot end. Will not."

  Glancing down, my hand blurred in front of my face as I tried to see what I was holding. The heart-shaped patina covered padlock that secured the crypt in The City of The Dead rested in my hand, much larger than I remembered it.

  "The girl holds the key. She does. Hers alone to hold. The girl must remember who she is. Where she comes from." Agrona's gaze roved my body up and down, and I tried to understand the continual riddling way she always talked, unsure what she was asking me to do. "The fire awakens. It breathes. The girl must let it in."

  "Let what in?" Confused, I glanced down at the lock.

  "The past. It will guide her back. Back the girl must go. Balance must be aligned." She grinned like a child who'd given someone a present they'd made themselves. "Open it. Only the girl can."

  My brow crunched, the weight of the lock too heavy in my palm, heaving down my already deadened arm. "You stole this?"

  "Agrona cannot steal what belongs to the girl if the girl has the lock in her possession." She gave a small, proud smile. "Open it."

  Positioning the padlock in my hand, the green patina smudged my palm. I pulled on the top metal loop and heard a distinct click. The underside, where the name MacCoinnich was etched into the metal, detached, and something slid forward.

  The hilt of a knife. A short ancient-looking dagger. My fingers wrapped the hilt, and it pulled smoothly out of
the lock, the blade gleaming as if it were new.

  "Knew the girl could open it. Ready she is now. Do you remember the words?"

  I nodded.

  Agrona leaned forward and reached out, her cool, wrinkled hand touching the side of my neck. "Repeat the words. A small incision will do." She glanced toward the knife in my shaking hand. "Quick and clean." With a pat to the side of my throat, she was gone.

  I stared at the dagger through my still unfocused sight. It fit perfectly in my palm, the weight of it distributed evenly through the tip of the short blade. The side of my neck was cool where the banshee had placed her fingertips. With a lurching breath, my fist gripped the hilt, and I eyed the Guard, both of them ashen faced as if they were witnessing a crime scene. I'd been walking through a nightmare, I realized. A hallucinatory state. Some awful side effect of the memory washing potion. I just need to wake up. None of this real.

  Except ...

  The dagger was in my fist. Hard, cold, heavy iron, and the heart-shaped lock was gripped in my other hand. My knuckles were white where I'd seized the hilt of the blade, my skin pulled too tight over my bones, joints standing out on my hand.

  In quick succession, my Oghams wrapped my body like a coat of armor, dark green against the paleness of my arms as though preparing for an attack. Waiting for an onslaught I didn't see. The small, scaly designs I'd witnessed growing over my skin in the Infirmary were multiplying. Golden lacy lines connecting, one with the next, as if a skilled hand was drawing them, each tipped and edged in red, reminding me of feathers tipped in blood.

  In a half-conscious state, I gripped the heart-shaped lock in my left hand and raised the knife to my throat with my right. It vibrated as it touched my skin. The Guard cried out, and a blaze of fire fanned out on either side of me, streams of light licking up, creating a cage around me, holding them back. Orange-red flames swallowed everything in sight, and the words echoed in my head like someone else was saying them. Someone else was speaking them.