Rebel Fire (Rebel Song Book 3)

  Rebel Fire

  Rebel Song Series Book 3

  Amanda J. Clay

  Rebel Fire by Amanda J. Clay

  © 2017 by Amanda J. Clay. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  This book is a work of fiction and does not depict any real persons or events. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First Edition: November 2017

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  To Thomas, as always. For seeing what others would not.

  Chapter 1

  The clash of knives—steel on steel in the misty hangover of the morning rain—grated at Elyra's ears. Grunts and stomps and clanks resonated off the stone walls surrounding the compound's back courtyard. The clouds rumbled above with the threat of rain. Elyra shivered and pulled her coat tighter around her small frame. She watched Arianna Elwood move with the dexterity of a mountain cat through the training yard as she threw jabs, ducked and rolled along the ground to avoid Iris' offensive attacks. Ari's twiggy limbs had hardened into steel rods corded with young muscle. Elyra's own useless arms twitched at her side. She imagined what it would feel like to have that kind of strength coursing through her blood.

  "You could do it too, you know," someone said beside her.

  She turned to see Rogan bundled in a thin jacket and wool hat. He smiled down at her, his breath hardening on the cold air.

  "I know," Elyra said, a little defensively. "But I don't have time for physical training. I have to focus on other things."

  He nodded and the twinkle in his sharp blue eyes told her he saw right through her façade of self-importance. Saw that, deep down, she was really just scared. She couldn't imagine the feel of steel in her hand as she flung out toward an assailant or the heavy metal of a pistol pointed toward her enemy. She couldn't imagine inflicting harm, taking a life. She wasn't so naïve that she didn't realize these things had to be done in times of war. But they were tasks for other people. Stronger people without the crippling fear and self-doubt.

  "Being opposed to violence doesn't make you weak, El," Rogan said as though reading her thoughts.

  She met his steely blue gaze, twinkling like sapphires in the morning sun. His sharp jaw was shadowed with a few day’s growth and his lips were red against the fair canvas of his wind-blown face.

  "Did you learn mind reading in that Romi camp?" Elyra said, smiling.

  "Your glass face hasn't changed,” he said.

  She blushed, fire warming her cheeks.

  "It's alright. I like knowing what you're thinking. Considering you never tell me," Rogan said.

  No, she didn’t reveal her thoughts and feelings often. Lately it was hard to express the jumble of emotions inside her. Elyra sighed and watched the young girl dance about the training yard with the agility and skill of anyone with twice her experience.

  "She's a force," Elyra said. Rogan turned to watch his sister. He exhaled loudly.

  "That she is. A terrifying one."

  "You're lucky," Elyra said.

  He raised a black eyebrow in amusement. "Oh?"

  "It would be worse if she were weak." Weak like me, she wanted to say. "At least she’ll be able to protect herself."

  "I guess so. But I worry about her impulsiveness. She doesn't think before acting," Rogan said.

  "That can be learned. But that fire within her—that passion and determination—that's inherent. Elyra sighed, the weight of her own inadequacies hoisted heavily on her shoulders.

  "You're not so different. Just because you can't fire a sniper rifle doesn't mean you're not equally as dangerous. You know more about politics and strategy than most anyone here. You think your upbringing made you weak, but it made you sharp and observant. You're educated and articulate—something a lot of our people aren’t. Don't think that those traits aren't equally as important in this fight."

  Elyra smiled, the kindness in his words warming her. She didn’t want to admit how desperately she longed for his approval just then. She longed to take his hand, to fall into his arms and let him comfort her further. But she only smiled and nodded in thanks. She needed to be stronger than the emotional pull to be with Rogan. For the sake of everyone, they both needed to ignore their feelings.

  Iris came over then, wiping sweat from her eyes. Her dark hair was a tangled mess on top of her head and dirt and sweat streaked her flushed face. She extended the knife toward Elyra.

  "Care to take a swing or two, princess?" Iris said.

  Rogan glared at her. "Iris," he scorned.

  Iris gaped her mouth innocently. "What? It's a fair question. She likes to watch after all. Just thought maybe she was curious what it felt like to actually participate."

  "I don't think I could even hold a flicker to your flame," Elyra said, pursing her lips into a tight smile. She was trying—Sants was she trying—to make friends with Iris. But the hardened Valley girl would have none of it. Every conversation was forced, every greeting was spiced with insincerity. She understood that Iris had cause to dislike her—to hate her even. She blamed Elyra for getting Rogan arrested, for the death of their friends. But she took her for a reasonable woman who was capable of seeing past all that was between them for the greater good. What did Elyra have to do to earn her respect?

  "Another time then," Iris said with a cheeky smile. She sheathed her knife and turned away.

  Elyra groaned from the back of her throat as Iris walked off.

  "Don't let her get to you. She's just being difficult," Rogan said.

  Elyra flopped her head to the side. "You think? Is she ever going to get past her animosity toward me?"

  Rogan touched her flushed cheek, gently brushing a rogue curl from her eyes. That touch—just a simple act of tenderness—twisted her mind into a labyrinth of sentiments. She resisted the urge to shut her eyes and fall into that touch. Instead she backed away just slightly.

  Rogan dropped his hand and looked back out at the training yard reflexively.

  "Iris is complicated. She'll need to time to work through her feelings about you being here. She needs to learn to trust you. Until she can do that, she's going to remain wary of you. She'll continue to test you," Rogan said.

  "Can't you say something to her? Can't Cable?" Elyra said in modest desperation.

  Rogan laughed a little. "Sure, I could. But it wouldn't do any good. Iris has a mind of iron—unbendable. And is that really how you want to solve your issues? To simply wave your hand and dole out reprimand, demanding feigned respect? Or would you rather earn that respect by proving yourself?"

  Elyra wanted to smack him for being right. Why was he always so goddamn right about everything?

  Rogan smiled, then leaned in and kissed the side of her head. "Time to toughen up, Highness. You've got a long road ahead otherwise."

  Rogan left but Elyra remained in the training yard watching Ari stretch out her muscles, feeling in awe of the young girl's determination. Toughen up. Show no weakness, no vulnerability. Yeah, easier said than done.

  "What must it be like?" Iris said, stepping up beside her again. Elyra snapped her head around to face her.

  "What's that?"

  "To have his heart in the palm of your hand," Iris said.

  Elyra thumbed her palm instinctively as if there were literalness to her metaphor.

  "It's a complicated thin
g," Elyra said. The truth was she was terrified of that thought. Some days she didn’t want that responsibility. She didn’t want to risk crushing that heart yet again.

  "Oh yes. Such a complicated thing to be utterly loved by so many. Such blind devotion you invoke," Iris said, a little glint in her big chocolate eyes.

  "I'm not so loved by all," Elyra said.

  Iris grunted. "Such humility. Do they teach you that in princess school?"

  "And do they teach you to be snide in rebel school?"

  "Ha! Touché, Highness," Iris said, a touch of laughter on her lips.

  "You might think it's all glamour, but I'm at the very bottom of many people's lists at the moment. Some would even like to see me dead. Can you say the same?" Elyra said.

  Iris shrugged. "I don't suppose so. At least not that I know of. Although I think Lt., Raynes would love to see me as far out of the way as possible."

  "Lt. Raynes would see anyone in his path toward glory out of the way. He cannot see the forest for the trees."

  "We have his mutual dislike in common then," Iris said.

  "It's a start," Elyra said. She felt Iris' eyes tracing her up and down. She felt even smaller every time she was in Iris' company. In addition to being tall and fit, Iris was just a force from her core. She filled a room with her very presence.

  "Don't get used to it," Iris said.

  Elyra took a breath and found composure. She turned her body to face Iris, having to look up slightly to meet her eyes.

  "Look, Iris. I know we have our differences, and that our ambitions may not fully align, but it would be in everyone's best interest if we could find some common ground on which to get along."

  Iris chewed her lip and stared at Elyra until she squirmed with discomfort under the weight of her sharp eye. No doubt an interrogation technique. Those eyes were like dark hooks right to the soul. Sants help any future children Iris might have.

  "I'll do what's best for the Cause. I always do. And my decisions will have nothing to do with how I might feel about you—good or bad," Iris said.

  Elyra controlled the frustration fluttering about in her gut. Iris was perhaps going to prove the toughest nut to crack out of all of them. In these past days, Elyra often asked herself why she even cared. If Iris insisted on harboring animosity toward her, then that was her issue, not Elyra's. But she always came back to her senses. She needed Iris. Maybe not to win back the crown. But she would need Iris to win over the Cause.

  "And I will do what's best for Arelanda. With or without you," Elyra said, trying to stand up a little straighter.

  "I would expect nothing less." Iris looked out on the yard. "Ari! Be ready again in five minutes. Princess, see you around."

  Iris started walking away.

  "So, this is just how it's going to be between us forever then?" Elyra said to her back. Iris stopped, then after a moment shrugged.

  "I haven't decided yet. I haven't decided how much you're worth to me just yet."

  Elyra waited until Iris had walked out of earshot before letting out a frustrated shriek.

  Chapter 2

  The prison cell at the pit of the palace was a sliver of a tormented nightmare. Exactly how Captain Garot Demos preferred it. The fear of the unknown, the appeal to the base human sense of dread, was so much more powerful than any pain he could inflict on the physical body.

  Demos smiled as he stared down at the prisoner on the floor of the dank cell, sitting in his own filth with his back against the wall. The room smelled of feces and blood and sweat, all mingled with fear and a slice of determination. The blinding fear that would cloud the eyes of most men was absent in this one. Demos always did appreciate when they fought hard. There was no fun in it if they simply rolled over and died on you. He must admit, even though he wouldn't mind getting information sooner than later and heading home to a nice warm bed, there was also no fun it they capitulated right away. How was he supposed to test out his well-practiced skills if his prisoners simply gave up the information right away?

  This was his favorite part of the job, he must admit. What's wrong with you? People had asked him that ever since he was a child ripping the legs from live frogs. Nothing was wrong with him. He was simply a man who knew that sometimes things just need to be done. It required a person with a strong constitution to do it.

  Demos studied his prisoner, calculating his next move. This was one was delightfully difficult to break. He'd had his share of tough talkers and hardened criminals in his care before, but this one had something beyond what they had. He had a brand of loyalty that was stronger than one's own self preservation. Demos admired that, he really did. But he’d break him all the same.

  "It doesn't have to be like this," Demos said. He cracked his neck.

  The man looked up at him with onyx eyes. Blood and dirt were caked on his tanned face and his long dark hair was a tangle. Demos wondered if he had Romi blood. That would make this even more pleasurable. He detested those savage people. The prisoner shifted slightly in his bindings, his wrists bloody and raw against the handcuffs.

  "Doesn't it?" The man said. "It seems to me no matter what I say it's going to go down like this. This is what you get off on, isn't it Demos?"

  Demos paced the cell back and forth, making little tsk, tsk sounds. He fingered his baton with one hand then waved it through the air a couple of times as though he was testing it's measure.

  "Wente, Wente. The great leader of the North. You're really not that impressive up close you know," Demos said. "Of course, few of you really are. I've had a few of you in my care over the years. I recall that Hollister boy. Ben, was it? He was sure a hellava lot of fun to make a martyr out of. One of my favorite prisoners, I must say. Although, I do have a soft spot for Elwood in particular. He and I go way back you know? I was well acquainted with his father."

  Demos smiled a maniacal smile down at Wente. It was something that came naturally to him, that evil look. But every now and again he enjoyed practicing in the mirror so that it would be just that much more effective on his victims. He savored the expression on people's faces when he gave them that look. He could smell the fear, drink it in. That was what people didn't understand. The fear of inflicting that kind of mental torment on someone was almost more enjoyable than the act itself. Who said work couldn’t be fun?

  "Yeah, so I've heard," Wente said, through a cracking breath. His lips were chapped and caked with blood. Demos had been easy on him so far. He didn't want to do any real damage until Wente told him what he needed to know. He couldn't risk killing him. Or, leaving him with some kind of brain damage that rendered him useless. He might as well just be dead at that point.

  "Just tell me where they are," Demos said. "Tell me where the new hideout is and this all stops. This all stops right now and you get to sleep in a bed tonight. I'll even make sure you can have your dinner of choice. A nice slab of venison, even some good wine to wash it down. I’ll even throw in a cigarette. How about that?"

  Wente spat a dirty wad of blood from his mouth at Demos's feet.

  "For a man who says he knows so much about our rebel cause, you really don't seem to understand our character at all," Wente said. "I'm never giving you anything. You might as well kill me now, because you're not getting the location out of me. You're not getting any information out of me."

  Demos cracked his neck and then ran his hand up and down the baton. He looked down at Wente. "We shall see, won't we? I can be very persuasive you know."

  Chapter 3

  Rogan stared into his coffee mug, his thoughts lost in the bitter steam. It was getting harder to simply pretend everything was ok between them. It was getting harder to be near Elyra without pulling her close. If he ever had the notion that time and distance would dim the flame, he was horribly mistaken. It only stoked the coals so that his fire for her burned even hotter.

  "Are you ok?" Jaco asked beside him in between bites of bland porridge doused in cheap sugar. Rogan looked up.

  "Fine. Why?" br />
  "I know the look you have. That strange thoughtfulness in your eyes when you're somewhere else. And you're not eating."

  Rogan stared into the lumpy mush in his bowl.

  "I just have a lot on my mind," Rogan said.

  "Things don't just happen because you wait around hoping for them you know, Rogan Elwood."

  Rogan flicked his eyes up to Jaco's dark pools.

  "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  Jaco grinned, flashing his gold tooth. "Her highness also has a lot on her mind. She has people to rule. She doesn't have time to chase you around."

  Rogan's jaw dropped. "I'm not...I don't expect. Do you think I'm playing game with her?"

  "I think you're playing games with yourself. I think you tell yourself that if you just wait patiently, she will come back to you."

  "I'm just giving her space. At HER insistence. I can't force things. Too much has happened and things are...well you know exactly how things are, Jaco. I don't have to explain it."

  "The Romi don't wait around. We want something, we take it."

  "Sorry to break it to you but the days of stealing wives have long since passed," Rogan said, laughing.

  "But she was stolen from you, no?" Jaco said, raising his dark eyebrows.

  Rogan glared at him. "I'd prefer not to talk about that."

  "And so, you just give up? Good plan."

  Rogan sighed, growing frustrated by his friend's poking.

  "I'm not giving up. Now is just...it's not the time. We have bigger things to worry about than my love life, ok? Like a revolution."

  Jaco smirked and shoveled the last few bites of porridge into his mouth.

  "Uh! I've been looking for you everywhere!" Ari's voice struck a chord in Rogan's ear.

  He looked up to see his sister standing with her arms crossed and an indignant look on her face. Her black hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head and she wore ripped black pants tucked into combat boots and a tight tank top that revealed a sliver of flat stomach.