Beautifully Burned: The Dreamcaster Series

By C.J. Burright

One woman haunted by dreams. One man broken by his past. One destiny to decide…

After a tragic fire wrecked her family and destroyed her dreams, bartender Ella struggles to survive while pretending her nightmares are normal. She never imagined life could get worse until Daxen—sensual, snarly, and the supernatural force she'd been warned to avoid—shows up at her bar. When he drags her into a hidden society of shapeshifters and appoints himself her protector, Ella does what she does best: plots a way to escape her fate.

But the world Daxen belongs to holds answers to the mysterious power that burns inside Ella, and ignoring the sparks he enflames proves harder each day. While Daxen claims he can't love, his touch fires her senses. His kiss calls her to trust him. Surrender could be so sweet … if not for the secrets that could crush them both.

When enemies kidnap Ella's sister, Daxen and Ella must decide who and what to trust—and a wrong choice on either side may kill the love neither expected to find and plunge them both into a nightmare they can't escape.

Beautifully Burned is the second in a new adult paranormal romance series, and while the Dreamcaster Series is best enjoyed in sequence, each book may be read as a stand alone. Each full-length story radiates with razor sharp tension, humor, banter, action and adventure, fated mates with hard-earned love, quirky goodness, beauty and hope in the darkness, shapeshifters with a nightmare twist, and a fresh and exciting take on the paranormal genre. If you like strong heroines who won't stop until they've saved their hot but tortured heroes, you'll love these magical romances. Discover the Dreamcaster world today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Burright
• Release date: Aug 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996147224

C.J. Burright

C.J Burright is a native Oregonian and refuses to leave. A member of Romance Writers of America and the Fantasy, Futuristic & Paranormal special interest chapter, while she has worked for years in a law office, she chooses to avoid writing legal thrillers (for now) and instead invades the world of paranormal romance, fantasy, and contemporary romance. C.J. also has her 4th Dan Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do and believes a story isn’t complete without at least one fight scene. Her meager spare time is spent working out, refueling with mochas, gardening, gorging on Assassin’s Creed, and rooting on the Seattle Mariners…always with music. She shares life with her husband, daughter, and a devoted cat herd.

Book preview

Beautifully Burned

The Dreamcaster Series 2

Grandma warned me to resist him.

I know what he is. Even if he doesn’t sparkle in the sun, hiss at holy water, or go by the traditional name of vampire, I know.

He doesn’t want or need my blood. He wants my dreams…more specifically, my nightmares. And I’ve got oodles of those, so many they leak.

He’s emotionally scarred, growly, dangerous, and kindles all my senses. Love isn’t on his agenda. Having him for a guardian isn’t on my list of fun, either. My touch sends him into darkness.

I shouldn’t want him.

I can’t want him.

But I do.

If I surrender instead of escape, I’ll lose everything–my sister, my will, my life. Gran forgot to tell me the most important detail of all: how am I supposed to resist him when he’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of?

Copyright © 2016 by CJ Burright

Published by Ravenrock Publishing, LLC

All Rights Reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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

Cover Designed by Fiona Jayde, www.FionaJaydeMedia.com

Formatted by Woven Red Author Services, www.WovenRed.ca

Beautifully Burned/CJ Burright—1st edition

ISBN: 978-0-9961472-2-4

First and always, to Eloah selikhot.

To Jack, for saying that he’s fishing merely to get out of my writing hair and his lewd and completely impractical story suggestions.

To Karissa, for being far wittier (among other things) than I could ever hope to be.

Acknowledgments

A big go raibh maith agat to Celia Breslin for all your awesomeness…and the freakin’ amazing beta read direction. You rock.

Gigantic thank yous to Mia Celeste, Traci Douglass, Georgia Lyn Hunter and Rhenna Morgan for all your help and for being my buddies in the writer world. I appreciate you so much!

Thank you to Cathy Yardley for your editorial guidance – you’re always right on. Also a big thank you to Fiona Jayde for the cover and making the process virtually painless.

And a huge MUWAH to my readers. Without you, I’m just a weird person getting the stories out of my head for my own sanity.

Chapter 1

Perched in the back pew of the care facility chapel, Ella twined her fingers together and closed her eyes. Praying aloud wasn’t her usual approach, but speaking the words might beef up her plea, make it more likely to be heard. Nothing else had worked so far.

Please let Ginny be better today. It’s not a lot to ask. She waited for thunder or a lightning flash beyond the stained-glass windows to acknowledge hope for her sister. Instead, the distant yap-yap-yap of a Chihuahua filtered into the chapel stillness.

Hell had hounds. Maybe heaven kept little dogs to nip heels of lazy angels. Ginny’s guardian cherub was definitely slacking. She lifted her gaze to the cobwebbed rafters. I’ll take it.

Before God reneged, she pushed off the bench and out into the too-bright hallway. The stink of antiseptic burned up her nose to her eyeballs, and she blinked, almost running into Mr. George stalled in the corridor. His cane whisked by her head, close enough to send her hair into a kerfuffle.

Not nice, Mr. George. She pressed against the whitewashed wall and sidestepped out of smacking range.

I’ll get you next time, Martha. It wasn’t personal. Mr. George called everyone Martha. He shuffled forward, watery blue eyes trained on her. You can’t hide forever. He threw his head back and cackled, toothless mouth wide.

His laughter followed her down the hall, an echoing surround sound. At least this time he hadn’t flashed his wrinkled bits. She cut a corner and shuddered. Applewood Institution came highly recommended, in the countryside with a honey farm the closest neighbor, but maybe it wasn’t all that. That was the third time Mr. George was on the loose, unsupervised. The staff probably let other areas slide too. Her sister deserved better.

Being broke blowed.

She hunkered into her denim jacket and pressed on. Her knock-off Keds did a bang up job of scuffing the tile. Several doors down, silence coiled around her again. The dead end hall lived up to its reputation.

Please let today be different.

Nurse Fiona emerged from her sister’s room and smiled. Hi, Ms. Foster. You’re here earlier than usual.

Ella pasted on her practiced it’s-all-fine-and-dandy face. Busy schedule today. Any change?

Pity welled in Fiona’s brown eyes. She shook her head and gripped a clipboard tight to her chest as if to shield herself against whatever infected normal people with mental disorders. Ginny’s awake, though. The smile reappeared, fake as Ella’s. Take heart, dear. Whether or not she shows it, she knows you’re here.

She nodded and slipped by. Kind words with zero comfort. Only Ginny knew what she did or didn’t see.

Oh, Ms. Foster?

Halfway into her sister’s room, Ella paused.

The financial department informed me last month’s residential fees haven’t been paid. Not even the pity could hide the again in Fiona’s tone. They hold strict to their ten-day grace period.

Dropped off a partial payment already. Thanks for the reminder. Not. She shut the door and closed her eyes. The past due notices and terse phone calls already forced her to look both ways before going anywhere. Those collection agencies made hit men seem sweet.

Yesterday’s daisy and daffodil bouquet remained fresh, a colorful splash on a severe canvas. Spring morning sunlight shimmered over clean gray tile and the metal chair in the corner. The I.V. stand loomed over Ginny’s single bed, a grim reminder to the truth.

Her sister’s pale blue eyes stared ahead to some distant scene, unfocused. She sat up in the pillows, her red-gold hair neatly braided into a rope over her slender shoulder. The drab institution gown couldn’t compete with the fluffy pink and white heart socks Ella had brought last payday.

She bit her lip to stop the trembling. Lucid or catatonic, Gin always loved fluffy socks.

Settled into the cold chair beside the bed, she took her sister’s hand and folded it between hers. Warm skin confirmed life behind the blank eyes.

Hey, sis. She cleared her throat. No matter how much she practiced, the one-sided conversations still felt awkward. You missed another boring night at the bar. No fights, no puking, not even a single fire. Five bucks in tips and someone left behind a functioning umbrella. Score.

Ginny stared ahead, her hand limp.

Ella drew a long breath and released it into the silence. She’d seen her sister in raging fits so violent she had to be strapped down. Huddled in a corner, rocking and shaking, enduring some torture only she could see. Fighting off invisible enemies. This unresponsiveness was worst of all, as if she’d given up, surrendered to the demons in her head.

I brought Wuthering Heights for you. It still stinks, but I’ll read if you beg me to. She hated the faint wrinkles fanning Ginny’s wide eyes, too many for a seventeen-year-old girl. Those wrinkles became laugh lines in the rare moments the sister she knew made a reappearance, the sister she should have every day, if not for…

She pressed her lips tight together until the bubbling inside slowed to a simmer. Rehashing the past didn’t change anything. Ginny was safe, alive. That was what mattered. And one day her sister would break out of her mental prison, permanently. She refused to believe otherwise.

What’s it going to be, Gin?

Only the hallway clock’s steady tick-tock answered.

Good. I hate Wuthering Heights. Give me a happy ending any day. She squeezed her sister’s hand and leaned back, her butt already aching. No matter the expense, every institution felt the same, hard chairs and anemic atmospheres, as if the lives on pause couldn’t sense the unwelcome sign. She rubbed the dampness from her palms on her jeans. I’m sure business will pick up with summer coming. There’s no way I’m sending you back to the state hospital. Gran said Dany’s was a strong name for a bar, and she was always right, huh?

She trailed the triple row of earrings in each lobe and lingered at the sapphires Gran had given her at the tender age of eight. Adder stones to protect her dreams because she’d inherited the cursed Foster family gene, just like mommy dearest. Ginny was in the clear, at least in that arena. Gran had promised the curse took only one victim from each generation.

Tears burned her eyes and hollowness rose from her soul, wringing her heart like an old rag. Six months since Gran died. Six months keeping a failing business afloat, tending an ill sister, and suffering a smorgasbord of nightmares. Twenty-three was too young to feel this ancient and alone.

I miss her, sis, she whispered. I miss you too. Please come back to me. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Ella laid her head on her sister’s lap and let the tears spill.

***

Daxen v’al Solanis crouched beside his bookcase and hefted Feminism for the 20th Century off the lowest shelf. Elbows braced on his thighs, he flipped the tome open. One knot in his shoulders relaxed. His first edition Pride and Prejudice nestled inside the secret nook of center-punched pages, tucked close to his second favorite dagger, exactly where he’d left it.

Hiding his prized publications was a vexation he wouldn’t tolerate long. Someone persisted in borrowing his books without permission. He ran a fingertip along the smooth, supple spine and inhaled the perfume of paper and leather. As a V’alkara, he didn’t have the capacity to love, but his fondness for reading came close, and the thief who dared touch P&P danced with death. He had an educated guess as to the shameless cur’s identity. A teenager, no less. How difficult was it for Alun to inquire before taking? He wasn’t that scary, not anymore.

Creak-crick.

Out of place, the tiny cricket chirp shot a warning along his nerves. The stillness drew around him, almost predatory, and he shifted to face the sparse room. The bare, oak-paneled walls, darkened by gray dawn, offered no suspects. Empty doorway. Only the hulking bookshelf provided a hiding spot, not that a furniture shortage would stop another V’alkara.

Creak-crick.

A groan rose from the bookcase, and Daxen whirled. The archaic cabinet tipped forward. Novels propelled into the air, followed by the bone-crushing fixture itself.

Damn! He leaped aside, and the bookshelf crashed an inch from his foot, setting off a chain reaction of chaos. The floorboards shuddered and snapped. With an unholy shriek, they cracked.

On hands and knees, he scrambled away while the antique bookcase and his first edition collection tumbled through the broken wood. A great, splintering boom echoed from the first floor and rippled into heavy silence.

Daxen pivoted, breathing hard. The jagged hole near his boot glared, as if blaming him for not anticipating this particular sabotage. Perhaps he should have. Three murder attempts in one week and now his books, victimized. The instigator and motive were no mystery. Both he and Lydon, the Black V’alkara, had bonded the same dreamcaster, and sharing Kalila with the cold-hearted Black was like playing tag with a cobra. It was only a matter of time before he wound up with fangs in his heel.

Waiting for his pulse to slow, he fisted his hands on his thighs. When it came to his relationship with Kalila, Lydon outmatched him at every level. He didn’t hold any illusions about that, but she had called him from the emptiness, stirred his soul back to semi-life. He wouldn’t give up his one positive personal connection to appease Black, just as Black wouldn’t cease trying to eliminate him. The one way to end the murder attempt cycle was to ensure Kalila caught Black in the act and commanded him to cease.

He pushed to his feet and spun slowly, not expecting to find anything. As with the other attempts on his life, Lydon was probably already back snuggled with Kalila, all angelic innocence. Still, he’d be a fool not to make an inspection.

Movement stirred on the wall beside him, a large fly. A large black fly. He pretended to dismiss it. Lydon wasn’t restricted to one nightmare shape stolen from dreams, not like most V’alkara. He could take whatever form he pleased, which made him that much more powerful. Dangerous. But not enough to make Daxen break his bond with Kalila.

Hands relaxed, he strolled the few feet to the door. The insect shifted, as though watching his progression. He stepped over the threshold and pivoted on a leap. His palm smacked the fly, and the stunned bug plopped on its back.

Grinding the pest into the floor would be so simple, so satisfying. He held his boot a few inches above the trembling insect. Yet doing so would make Kalila unhappy. She was the one person who mattered to him, and he’d never willingly be the source of her sorrow. In time, Lydon would slip up. Until then, he’d stay alert and survive.

He stomped beside the fly and it bounced at the close impact. Out of respect for Kalila I’ll spare you this once. Pinching its wings between his fingers, he picked it up and held it close to one eye. The little legs churned the air, a desperate attempt to escape. My patience stretches thin, Black. Kalila needs only one V’alkara. I’ll make certain she doesn’t overly miss you. He flicked the fly into the air.

The fly wobbled, dropped toward the floor, and hummed to life at the last second, zigzagging in a drunken path. It circled and darted straight at him.

A swat at the airborne annoyance missed. The insect zipped by his ear. Then silence.

Daxen turned. Nothing marked the ceiling, walls, or floor. Lydon had probably taken another shape. Bothersome Black.

Between words, a sharp sting pierced his nape, and he slapped a hand over his neck. Missed again. The fly whizzed out the door.

A lump rose beneath his fingers, sore and hot. He clenched his jaw. Black was swift, but not swift enough to elude him. Daxen Changed into wind, his speediest shape, and gusted from his room, through the hallway to Kalila’s chambers. A vase toppled to the carpet as he blasted by, and he resisted the urge to stop and right it. Restoring order could wait. No matter how it itched to leave a mess, catching Black red-handed was most important. He slipped beneath her door and Changed back.

Crystals in the obsidian wall danced and winked, star bright. Dawn’s blush glossed the giant bed with its rumpled crimson comforter. Black was nowhere in sight, a telltale sign of culpability. Then again, neither was the dreamcaster. His chest tightened. Kalila loathed early mornings. Something was wrong.

Eyes closed, Daxen centered on the gossamer strands linking V’alkara to dreamcaster, silken soft yet strong as battleship chains. He followed the gentle tug downstairs to the sunroom and paused. Absorbed in a glaring contest, Black and Kalila didn’t seem to notice him. He wasn’t certain whether to place it in the good or bad category. Leaning one shoulder against the wall, he played the silent bystander.

You’re being overprotective and unreasonable, as usual. Kalila’s huff rustled her dark bangs. Her gold-flecked eyes sharpened, cutting at Lydon. While small and slender, her ferocity made up for whatever she lacked in size. The fact she was the strongest dreamcaster in V’alkara records only added to her clout.

And you’re being stubborn. More than a foot taller than Kalila, Lydon loomed over her. The first sunrays haloed his pale hair, but his raven button-down shirt represented the Black V’alkara more accurately. He was a step in rank beneath their leader White and equally treacherous, if not more. We can handle this without White, sweetness. He has his hands full right now with the defecting V’alkara.

Don’t call me sweetness. Kalila poked Lydon in the chest with one finger. Her long-sleeved red T-shirt clashed bright against Lydon’s dark clothes. We don’t need to handle anything. Night visions are never wrong, remember? Nothing to do but jump on board.

Night visions. Unease curled around Daxen’s neck. Dreamcasters lived through nightmares while they slept, every single night, only finding true rest with a V’alkara to guard her dreams. Whether a side effect of her power or a natural skill, Kalila also experienced visions in her dreams. Nightmare visions—horror on demand.

A low growl emerged from Lydon. He stooped and looked Kalila face to face, his arctic gaze unwavering. She returned his stare, arms folded, not backing down. Funny, but while almost complete opposites, they made a perfect match. Even mid-argument, an invisible force danced between them, a deep devotion born of earned trust and unexpected love.

Yearning pierced Daxen’s soul, so vicious it threatened to collapse his chest. Watching love in action produced a desperate thirst, a thirst he knew would never be quenched. What he shared with Kalila would never compare to the dreamcaster match Black had with her. Even so, her scraps were more than he’d ever dared to hope for, and he wouldn’t risk them for anything.

Well? What do you have to say? Kalila planted her gaze on Daxen.

He straightened. How and when, exactly, had he been dragged into this conversation? No matter. Whatever the question had been, he’d side with her if it contradicted the Black. Of course, I agree with you, dreamcaster.

Lydon’s expression settled into deceptive calm. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his eyes glittering with diamond-sharp intensity.

Great, then it’s settled. A spotlight smile of approval brightened Kalila’s face. We make for Reedsport and fend off the Faction.

Daxen tensed. The Faction, enemy of the V’alkara, destroyers of all dreamcasters. While sparse in number, their sole mission was to cripple the V’alkara, mainly by killing dreamcasters and their nightmares, the very ingredient a V’alkara needed to thrive. A dreamcaster had no defense against the Faction. He pretended not to feel the accusing weight of Lydon’s gaze. You being anywhere near the Faction would be— Foolish. Rash. Suicidal. —imprudent.

Your support is a little late, Blue. Lydon’s tone, while soft, held a murderous undertone. His jaw ticked once.

He kept his mouth shut. A response at this point might be dodgy, even with the dreamcaster present.

No changing votes. Kalila squinted into the sunrise. If we go now, we can be there by noon tomorrow, and I’ve had enough of V’alkara travel modes. We’ll do it old-school, a road trip.

I saw your vision too. Undeterred, Lydon took Kalila’s face between his hands and forced her gaze to his. I won’t risk you, Lils. Let me go alone. Send Daxen, Alun, anyone. Stay here, safe.

Kalila pressed her hands over Lydon’s and her features softened. Escaping night visions of you proved useless. What I saw turned out to be something else, right? This is probably the same thing, and if I do nothing, what will happen to the other dreamcaster?

Daxen stilled. Other dreamcaster? He should have paid more attention.

An inhuman snarl rose from Lydon, jerking the hairs on Daxen’s arms to full attention. Let the other dreamcaster die.

Her smile deflated. Don’t be mean. I’m going.

You’re not. I’ll chain you up if I must.

Don’t make me use our bond, Black.

Fine. Lydon’s trembling hands belied the silk of his voice. I’ll coerce someone to do it for me.

Kalila’s glare returned. Don’t even think about it.

For a split second, Lydon morphed into a creature of cemetery nights—black, billowing cape, bone-white face, empty eye sockets and a skeleton’s macabre grin. The next heartbeat, he returned to darkness cloaked in illusory splendor.

Daxen fought off a shiver. An unstable Black would be bad for everyone.

Lydon broke eye contact with his dreamcaster and looked out to the dawn.

For the first time ever, Daxen felt a pinprick of sympathy for Black. He recognized fear when he saw it, and the helplessness that went with caring for another more than himself must chafe, especially for someone as selfish and possessive as Black.

You can’t keep me locked up in a glass case. I’m not a wimpy doll. She twined her fingers with Lydon’s and the simmering threat of violence in the air eased. Besides, you’ll be with me every day, every minute, every second. The Black V’alkara would never let anything happen to his dreamcaster, would he?

Daxen clenched his fist. He hated that she didn’t mention him too. He also hated that she had a solid point. Black would kill anything that looked at Kalila wrong, but not even he could fully erase the danger of tangling with the Faction.

And everyone says I’m the manipulative one. Lydon dragged her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. Die on me and you’ll be the one who’s sorry, sweetness. I’ll hunt you down in heaven or hell, wherever you happen to be, and show you what it means to be tormented.

What do you mean hell? I’m not that bad. She pressed her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes as if she already stood at heaven’s gate.

Despite the private moment, Daxen couldn’t avert his gaze. To revel in another’s touch, to want human contact, to be comforted by hands and arms…he couldn’t imagine.

Lydon’s lips twitched. Whatever you say, little monster.

Nimble footsteps tip-tapped near and Melanie burst into the room, her fair curls in perfect order, yellow sundress brighter than the rising sun. Sparkles lit her blue eyes, and she gave his arm a quick squeeze in passing, which was fortunate, not only due to his aversion to contact. Kalila’s friend had a reputation for pinching parts less appropriate. Why wasn’t I invited to the party?

Daxen pretended to straighten his shirt cuffs and prayed she’d pay him no more attention. The woman saw things, things he had no desire to see. True visions. He preferred to leave his future around the corner, out of sight.

Prophetess. Lydon’s greeting held less warmth than a glacier. Come to spread discontent and anxiety?

Melanie cocked one hip and sniffed. I bring only happiness and rainbows. Ask anyone.

Kalila rested back against Lydon’s chest and drew his arms around her. A tiny crease formed between her dark eyebrows as she studied her friend’s face. I’d usually back you up, but you’re awake too early. What did you see?

A place called Dany’s, a bar in Reedsport. Mel’s mouth tightened into a glossy, bubblegum stripe. She settled into a lounger and folded her hands on her lap. Remember the guy in my living room the night you whisked us to Alderwood, Lydon?

The stiff set of Lydon’s

Reviews for Beautifully Burned

[thebookjunkiereads-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Daxon and Ella pulled me in to their world and in to their lives, past and present. I was enthralled by the dynamics of the world that the Dreamcaster Series was taking place in. I was immediately captivated by the similarities and the differences between Dax and Ella. I was intrigued by the secondary characters including Lydon and Kalila. The bonds, deceit, fears, triggers, betrayal, connections to Wonderfully Wicked. There were similarities to the first read of the series but it did not detract from the two characters building their story here. Ella had many moments when I was just not sure about her. She keep me wondering what was she thinking. How could she do that? Dax had a few moments of me wanting to slap him hard. The connection that he had with Kalila and the paranoia he had about Lydon.This read fits right into the frame of things for the Dreamcaster Series.