Blaze, page 1
Blaze
The Blaze Series, Book 1
Monique Martin
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Monique Martin
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission.
Cover by BZN Studio
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For more information, please contact
writtenbymonique@gmail.com
Or visit: www.moniquemartin.weebly.com
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the help and support of many people. I’d like to thank Cidney, Phoenix, Michael, Tanya, Sarah, Elizabeth, Taryn, Amber, Andra, Arel, Mom and George, Dad and Anne, and Eddie and Carole, and especially Laura for her support and skill in making this series a reality.
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
More Books & About the Author
Chapter One
September 1888
Hyde Park, London
She could feel them. The shades.
They lurked in the shadows, silent as the grave, but Abigail could feel them growing closer.
Her footfalls were silent, unerringly finding the smallest spaces between the fallen maple leaves as she made her way through the park. There were two. No, three, she realized, the third lingered farther back, waiting.
Every sense sharpened, Abigail Delquist prepared herself for what was to come. It had happened more times than she could possibly count in the forty-five years since she’d become the Blaze. Each time, she felt the power inside her grow, a fire stoked to flame.
She would miss it when her time ended.
A new Blaze would be born soon, she knew. She’d found the girl, or at least the girl’s mother, who had already chosen a name for the child, Artemis. It was a good name, a goddess’s name. She’d need all of that strength and more. Her situation was … complicated.
Abigail’s eyes might be those of an old woman, but they were still as keen and sharp as they’d ever been, and she saw the silhouette of one of the shades in the moonlight as he furtively moved to her right from tree to tree. A demon with the shape of a man.
A twig snapped to her left and she stopped.
There was the second.
She could keep moving, but why delay the inevitable? This was what she did, who she was.
Slowly, Abigail turned to face the third shade. Although she could not see him in the darkness, she knew where he was.
“All right,” she said, tiredly. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
The third shade stepped out of the shadows and motioned for his friends to do the same. They surrounded her now, but she was unconcerned.
“Lettin’ yerself get cornered like this. Ye’ve lost a step, old woman.”
“Have I?”
She had. More than one, actually. But that wasn’t all that surprising considering she was nearly sixty-two. Old enough for a woman but nearly ancient for a Blaze. Her time was nearly done.
Abigail had long walked along the edge of darkness, the lure of it her constant companion but never her master. And now, some disease would do what countless demons, her own included, could not.
“Oh, that’s right. I remember,” Abigail said, pausing to make a show of thinking about what the shade had said. “I didn’t have my sword then, did I?”
She reached behind her head and unsheathed the Hellsword from its invisible scabbard on her back. Suddenly, flames licked at the edges of the blade. The shade’s eyes flashed with uncertainty.
As they should.
“Lucky for me, I brought me friends this time,” the shade said with a wretched smile.
His miserable smile grew and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Abigail heard the tell-tale whoosh of air as the shade to the left sped toward her in a blur, faster than the eye could see. She’d fought his kind before, many, many times, and she was not caught off-guard by his quickness.
With instincts honed over decades, she reacted with even more speed than the shade, lowered her sword in front of her, and the poor sod ran right into it.
Quick of feet but not of thought.
For a brief moment he looked at her with surprise, but neither it nor he lasted long. The Hellfire did its job and the demon disappeared in a burst of light, sent back to the Otherworld.
Abigail gave the sword a twirling flourish and looked back toward their leader.
“One down, two to go.”
The shade sent his other friend forward and as he approached, his thickly muscled body diverged into two. A Splitter? She hadn’t seen one in years.
The man, now two identical men, strode toward her. She almost pitied them. Almost. Splitters were always so slow.
One lunged for her while the other circled behind her. One, two, three slices of her blade and they were gone in a burst of light. She swept away the dusty remnants from her skirt.
“I suppose that leaves—” she started to say, but an intense pain that took her breath away shot through her stomach.
No, she thought. Not yet.
She still had so much work to do before the girl was born. Being the Blaze was difficult enough, but this poor child—considering who her father was, what her father was—would face ordeals Abigail had never endured. Artemis would need a strong and loving guide, someone to shepherd her, or all would be lost.
Abigail finally controlled her pain and turned toward the shade, clearing her throat.
“That just leaves …”
Her voice trailed off as the shade took off running, its silhouette vanishing into the darkness of the park.
“Bugger.”
She thought about giving chase, but the pain was still sharp. He would have to wait for another day. She sighed. If I have another day left.
She put thoughts of herself aside and focused on the girl, on the future, praying she would have the needed strength.
Abigail sighed again and re-sheathed her sword.
During her Emergence, Artemis would either embrace the Light and become its champion or plunge London into a Darkness the world had seldom seen. It was little comfort that, whatever happened, Abigail would not be there to see it.
“I fear, Doctor, it is the mania.”
Doctor Victor Schäfer sighed inwardly while smiling outwardly. He wanted to tell Lady Brigby-Higgins, one of his newer patients, what was really wrong with her, but he didn’t dare. It had only been a few years since he’d taken over Dr. Alcott’s practice. However, a twenty-seven-year-old doctor was not what most patients who came to Harley Street were looking for. Unfortunately, that meant he couldn’t afford to be too honest with patients like Lady Brigby-Higgins, who suffered from nothing more than a need to suffer from something. And, he thought, glancing at her stout figure, perhaps a little gout eventually.
“I somehow doubt that,” he said.
The portly woman shook her head, her loose jowls wiggling back and forth. “I’m sure it’s the mania. Although, it could be the vapours,” she said. “My dear friend Petunia suffers from them quite dreadfully.”
The corner of his mouth twitched into the beginning of a smile before he could wrestle it back into the neutral and calm expression patients desired.
Victor had it on good authority that the only thing Petunia Pettles suffered from was a rather unfortunate name.
While it went against his nature to pander to fictional afflictions, he had few options. He reached into one of the long wooden drawers and took out a brown envelope, then brought it to his desk and quickly wrote out instructions upon it.
“One half teaspoon once a day,” he said, as he held out the envelope toward her.
She reached for it, but he eased it back out of her grasp and gave her a stern look, not difficult for a Dane, as stern was his natural repose. “Just a half,” he cautioned her. “It is quite potent.”
She nodded quickly and snatched the envelope from his hand, fearful that he might withdraw it again. Lady Brigby-Higgins looked at her medicine as though her treacle tart had won first prize at the fair and then tucked it into her silk reticule.
“Thank you so much, Doctor.”
He gave her a small bow. “My pleasure.”
She beamed at him and he offered his hand to help her out of the chair. It was a courtesy in most cases, but in hers, somewhat of a necessity.
He escorted her to the door. Loath as he was to treat patients who didn’t actually need his help, the unfortunate truth was that doing so made it possible to see those who actually needed him.
He opened the door to his surgery and let her precede him into the small waiting room adjoin ing his office.
Mrs. Delquist sat in one of the chairs, patiently waiting for her appointment that was supposed to have started twenty minutes ago. He offered her a quick apologetic smile as he tried to usher Lady Brigby-Higgins out into the hall.
“Thank you so much, Doctor. I feel better already.”
“Yes, yes. Good. Goodbye.”
The doctor closed the door behind her, let out a sigh, and tugged on his waistcoat before turning back to Mrs. Delquist.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. How are we feeling today?”
“We have been better,” she said and added with a thoughtful smile, “but we have also been worse.”
Victor chuckled and held out his arm, gesturing for her to go into the office.
He’d been dreading this appointment all week. Mrs. Delquist had been the first of Dr. Alcott’s patients to come see him. After her, the others had thankfully followed. Her faith in him, even when he had been unsure of himself, had given him the chance for the career he had today.
Even without owing her that, he found he liked her. Very much. She was kind and never put on a pretense. She was a rare figure in London, a completely genuine person.
And today he had to do the one thing doctors hated to do above all else. Tell someone they’re dying.
Mrs. Delquist took off her hat and sat down in the chair the doctor gestured to and smiled up at him.
She was pale and gaunt, he noted, her disease advancing at a frighteningly rapid rate. When he’d first met her, she was in the most remarkable condition. At sixty years old, she had the constitution of a woman half her age.
He knew nothing of her life before she’d become his patient but, despite her robust health, it must have been a cruel one. He’d never seen so many scars before, except on war veterans. He never asked her for details, and she never offered them, but he’d always wondered. Whatever it was, whatever had happened to her, she had risen above it. She was truly a remarkable woman.
And now, it seemed especially unfair for this woman, who had suffered so much, to face this as well.
“So,” she said, folding her hands across her lap and looking at him expectantly.
Victor sighed and pulled a chair close to her. He sat down and reached out to take her hand in his. Hers was so thin and frail now.
“I am afraid it is cancer.”
Her expression didn’t change, only the slightest movement of her eyes gave away her emotion. She controlled it quickly, nodded, and looked down at their joined hands. She gave his hand a comforting squeeze. “It’s all right.”
“I am the one who is supposed to say that.”
She gave a soft laugh. “It really is. I think I’ve known for some time.”
He didn’t doubt it. She was exceptional.
“I can give you something for the pain,” he said.
She shook her head. “It’s tolerable.”
He knew that was not the case at all.
“I am terribly sorry,” he said. “I wish there was something I could do.”
She patted his hand and sat back in her chair. “You take this personally, don’t you? Losing a patient.”
He did. Especially her. “Yes.”
“That does you credit, but there are some battles you simply cannot win.”
He knew that was true enough, but it did little to make him feel better.
“Do you believe in the afterlife, Doctor?”
The question surprised him, although, it shouldn’t have. It was a natural course of thought.
Normally, he wouldn’t have given the question much consideration, but he did so now. He was a man of science above all else, but he was not so arrogant as to think that all there was could be defined by such.
“I am not sure,” he said.
She smiled. “Honest. I like that. And I’ve always liked you, Doctor. Very much.”
“You are too kind.” Her grace, given the circumstances, was almost discomfiting.
“Do not despair, Doctor. I have had an amazing life. The things I’ve seen. The people I’ve known. I would not change a thing. Even this.”
He frowned at that.
“I would not have met you otherwise,” she said.
“That hardly seems a fair trade.”
She smiled one of her enigmatic smiles that always made him feel as though he had failed to see something important.
“Your name,” she said. “I’ve always been curious. Schäfer, that’s German, isn’t it? What does it mean?”
That’s an odd question, he thought, but answered nonetheless. “Yes, my father was German, my mother Danish. Schäfer means shepherd.”
Her smile grew. “Shepherd.” She gave a small laugh. “How fitting.”
Before he could ask her what she meant by that, she stood. He quickly followed.
She held out her hand. “It has been a distinct pleasure knowing you, Doctor Schäfer.”
That seemed rather final. “Your prognosis is not good, but that does not mean this is—”
“I’m afraid it does,” she said. “But don’t worry, dear Doctor,” she added, tapping his chest, “you haven’t heard the last of me yet.”
Somewhat assuaged, Victor nodded. “Good.”
He escorted her through the waiting room and out into the front hall of his home. “Do you have a carriage waiting or should I ask Thomas to drive you?”
She shook her head. “I think I’m going to walk and enjoy what’s left of my day.”
Victor nodded and opened the front door for her. He watched her walk down the steps and turn down the street until she disappeared into the thick London crowd. Somehow, he knew that despite what she’d said, he would never see her again.
Loud knocking startled Victor awake, and he nearly tipped his glass of brandy off the side table next to him. Still groggy, he shook his head and caught the journal he’d been reading before it slipped off his lap. He’d been scouring the latest issues of the British Medicine Journal in the vain hope that someone somewhere had found something to help Mrs. Delquist. No one had.
He closed the journal to place it on the table with the others when he heard the loud knocking again.
“All right, all right,” he said, pushing himself out of the large comfortable wingback chair in his study.
As he walked out into the hall, he saw Mrs. Perry, his maid and cook—the only servant he could afford—wrapping a shawl around her shoulders and coming out of her room belowstairs.
“It is all right, Mrs. Perry. Go back to bed.”
As a doctor, especially a young one, it wasn’t unusual to get late night calls. He glanced at his watch as he went to answer the door. At nearly midnight, this certainly qualified as late.
He opened the front door to reveal a young man ready to knock again.
“Yes?”
The boy snatched the cap off his head and clutched it anxiously to his chest. “You Doctor Schäfer?”
Victor scrubbed his face with his hand, wiping away the last vestiges of sleep. “Yes, what seems to be matter?”
“You have to come, sir. Please?”
Victor turned to grab the medical bag he kept by the door for just such moments and reached for his coat and hat.
“What is the problem?”
“Mrs. Cain’s havin’ her baby.”
He stopped and turned to the boy. “Then you should be seeking a midwife, not a doctor. I’m sure there’s one at Nonnatus House or—”
The boy swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was told to come get you.”
“Be that as it may—”
The boy took an urgent step forward. “I was to tell to you that Mrs. Delquist said you was the one. The one to come.”
Victor’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. Delquist?”
The boy’s head bobbed up and down. “Please hurry. There’s … complications, see?”
