Firebinders: Fleur: The Firebinders Series, #2

By Isobelle Cate

Who can she trust?

 

Fleur Fenwick, a firebinder, is on the run. After her friend is killed, she unearths a secret that can spell life or death for all firebinders, including her brother. When the police get involved, the detective assigned to protect her not only sends her heart racing, but also seems to know the reason why there are forces who want firebinders dead.

 

Cynn Cruor warrior Ewan Blair returns to the city to fulfill a promise he made to a woman-child. While on patrol with fellow Cynn Cruor Blake Strachan, he encounters a beautiful woman who not only holds her own in a fight with the Scatha Cruor but also sets his blood afire with a desire he never thought possible.

Dead bodies start piling up, illuminated manuscripts with hidden clues, and Fleur's brother goes missing. It's a race against time to get firebinders to safety. Through it all, the sensual conflagration between Fleur and Ewan is undeniable.

 

So is the threat to them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Isobelle Cate
• Release date: Mar 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223161950

Book preview

Fleur Fenwick, a firebinder, is on the run. After her friend is killed, she unearths a secret that can spell life or death for all firebinders, including her brother. When the police get involved, the detective assigned to protect her not only sends her heart racing, but also seems to know the reason why there are forces who want firebinders dead.

Cynn Cruor warrior Ewan Blair returns to the city to fulfill a promise he made to a woman-child. While on patrol with fellow Cynn Cruor Blake Strachan, he encounters a beautiful woman who not only holds her own in a fight with the Scatha Cruor but also sets his blood afire with a desire he never thought possible.

Dead bodies start piling up, illuminated manuscripts with hidden clues, and Fleur’s brother goes missing. It’s a race against time to get firebinders to safety. Through it all, the sensual conflagration between Fleur and Ewan is undeniable.

So is the threat to them both.

Acknowledgement

It has taken more than a year to finish Fleur and Ewan’s story. Just like most if not all of the world, my family suffered through the pandemic, losing two family members to COVID-19 within six months in 2021. I didn’t have the drive to write and was seriously thinking of leaving my writing career.

As you can see, I didn’t. I just love writing stories too damn much.

This is a long -assed book but I thought that since you have been waiting for it, the least I could do was to weave a tale to make up for the time you’ve had to wait.

It’s also my way to say thank you.

For hanging in there with me.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

FIREBINDERS:Fleur

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2022 © Isobelle Cate

Edited by:

Jennifer Stevens

Cover by Down Write Nuts

––––––––

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

Glossary of words

Couldna – couldn’t

Daingead -dammit

Didna – didn’t

Dinnae – don’t

Dinnae fash – don’t worry

Tapadh Leat – thank you.

Hae – have

Isna – isn’t

Ken/kenned/kenning – Know, knew, knowing

Munros - mountains

Shouldna – shouldn’t

Tapadh leat  - thank you

Bha mi riamh moiteil asad, Eòghan

– I hae always been proud of you, Ewan.

Wouldna/wouldnae – wouldn’t

Names

Bannach – Banak

Mellisande - Mellisand

A logo with a black background Description automatically generated

New Year’s Eve 1904

Times Square, New York

Ellery Mellisande led his family through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in Times Square, trying to find a gap where they could regroup. It was not the best of places to make arrangements that would forever change their lives, but they had no choice.

It was their turn to be hunted down.

He glanced over his shoulder. Genevieve gripped his hand, giving him a short reassuring smile, belying the fear and anguish swimming in her dark blue green gaze. Behind her, their daughter, Angelique, was breathing through her mouth, her head thrown back, staring at the dark sky. Taking the rear, her twin brother, Alain Henrí, had taken off his flat cap, his face grim as perspiration dripped from his temple even in the freezing cold.

Papa. Angelique’s voice was faint, her skin pale under the kaleidoscope of fireworks.

Ellery didn’t need further prodding. Despite the curses surrounding them, he and Genevieve pulled Angelique to the front of the line.

Over there, he shouted as they all inched their way, stepping on shoes and trekking at a turtle’s pace until they reached an alley miraculously devoid of revelers waiting to welcome January 1st, 1905.

Angelique stumbled into the open space as Ellery pulled his wife and son through the bodies, forming a barrier between claustrophobia and the open air.

Genevieve rushed to her daughter, who was leaning and gripping the wooden crates stacked by the side of the brick building.

Are you alright? Genevieve asked above the sound of revelers, her white linen and lace dress rumpled and stained with dirt and sweat. Strands of her hair had escaped the Gibson girl bouffant chignon atop her head.

Ellery looked at his family, all of them taking huge amounts of slightly ammonia smelling air. But it was better than being trapped in between bodies that he, too, had felt the threatening invasion of swooning.

Swooning was for women.

They all looked at each other. Angelique had lost the pale blue satin ribbon that kept half of her golden-brown hair tied at the back of her head.

This is the only place we can talk, he said. A safe place and time to decide what needs to be done.

No, Genevieve cried, vehemence and anger mixing with the tears forming in her eyes.

* * * *

She was going to collapse.

She was being tugged forward through a sea of bodies, jostling for a place to watch the fireworks illuminating the year on New Year’s Eve from the Times Building. She was vaguely aware of her right hand was in her mother’s grip, while her left held the strong and reassuring hand of her twin brother, Henrí.

Angelique, not long now.

Her mother’s voice floated about her, crossing the heads and faces of New York. She could hardly feel the cold air and her thick coat was making her overheat.

Immaru, help me.

Angelique looked up at the starlit sky, hoping to catch a clear pocket of air she could drag into her lungs. To her right, the top of the Times Building rose to the heavens, its stark white façade made dirty by the smog that was becoming the fixture of the city. The number ‘1905’ remained dim, only illuminated by streetlights. Soon it would be ablaze from the fireworks promised by New York Times’ owner, Alfred Ochs.

Papa... I don’t... Tried as she might, Angelique couldn’t get air into her lungs. The crowd crushed into whatever minute space around her.

Suddenly, Henrí and her mother pushed her forward to her father, and they hauled their way forward amidst the curses and glares of some revelers.

My daughter is about to collapse, Ellery roared above the grumblings.

That declaration caused a narrow path to appear ahead of them. They all rushed through before the bodies closed behind Henrí.

They were free.

Angelique stumbled into the dark alley, staggering towards the crates stacked one after the other. She never suffered from claustrophobia; but the dense New Year’s Eve crowd and the reason they left their home in a hurry had triggered the panic attack that had led to this.

She gathered her skirts when she sat, careful not to let it fall on the piss-ridden floor.

Are you alright? Her mother helped her straighten up, then cupped her face. Genevieve brushed the damp tendrils away from her face.

I’ll be fine, Mama, Angelique said as she inhaled. It wasn’t the purest of air, but an icy wave passed through and she could breathe more. She was no longer overheating.

Neither was her family.

Henrí’s face, ruddy while they traversed through the crowd, regained his colour. And just like Angelique, the fire he had inside him settled down.

The rest of her family took a crate and sat down. Just like Angelique, Genevieve raised the hem of her skirts above their laced-up boots.

What’s happened? Henrí asked, wiping his brow with the back of his hand before putting his flat cap back on. I have to get back to the hospital.

Angelique saw the anguish flicker between her parents. Her stomach plummeted.

It’s time, isn’t it? she asked in a small voice almost unheard over the voices of New York. Fear and heartache tightened her chest.

Her father looked at her, his eyes filled with despair. Her mother covered her face with one hand while linking fingers with her father’s.

He nodded. It’s time.

At the mouth of the alley, people began chanting.

Ten!

They all stood.

Nine!

Angelique flung herself against her parents, her heart breaking into a million pieces.

Eight!

Henrí embraced her, and his arms wrapped around his parents’ shoulders as they all huddled together one last time.

Seven!

We don’t have much time. Ellery pulled away from their family embrace. Henrí, Angelique, take care of each other.

Six!

Her father glanced furtively at the crowd.

Five!

We will meet up in the lodge on Catskills in a year’s time, to the day. Is that understood?

Four!

Angelique and her brother nodded vigorously; their fingers tightly entwined.

Three!

Go straight to the new house. Here’s the key. Her father removed a chain around his neck. Follow our plan to the letter and we’ll be fine.

Two!

We have to go.

One! Happy New Year!

Angelique’s face crumpled; her sobs lost in the cacophony of joyous shouts. Her arms tightened around her father, mother, and Henrí. They all embraced each other once more, her father whispering one phrase as they huddled for the last time.

Find Marek Bannach!

1

All Hallows Eve

Manchester

Fleur carefully returned the piece of illustrated manuscript to its protective non-acidic sleeve. She stretched, wincing at the ache that bunched below her nape. Heaven help her, she couldn’t wait to get home. She’d been spending almost every waking hour inside the private archives, and by the time she was ready to skip and skedaddle, the sun was just a glow on the horizon.

Getting up, she returned the rare document in its steel drawer inside the climate controlled open preservation room off the main work area. She perused the rows of movable shelves and the metal drawers housing so many scrolls, manuscripts, and rare tomes that perhaps rivalled the Vatican’s in value. Any trace of humidity could destroy what was left of history, most of which were already in a fragile state.

I’m taking a break, she muttered to the cavernous room, plopping her butt on her desk’s chair. She took out the ball of yarn and the current crochet project she was doing and started pulling the yarn over and through the still-to-be-finished jumper. The stitches she knew by rote soon eased the pressure she felt and she heaved out a sigh as stress steadily released its hold on her.

She missed the sun, missed going out to walk in the park, let alone practice with her needles, even just a quick breather to enjoy the magnificent gardens outside and the forest next to it. But eccentric billionaire and recluse Benedict Craven-Hoyle wanted his latest collection of illustrated documents to be catalogued, analysed to an inch of their lives and ready for exhibition in less than two months, or for purchase, as the case may be. Benedict didn’t tell her to slave through the volumes, but he didn’t need to with a deadline like that? Nobody in their right minds would have time to slack off. Besides, Craven-Hoyle was paying her ten times more than the average conservator’s salary, and expected the commensurate hours of her life toiling inside the high-ceilinged room.

The iron grill gates leading to the archives creaked on its hinges, the lock echoing when it closed. The faint smell of strong coffee tickled her nose, and she looked up, her hands stalling with the crochet hook frozen inside a stitch. Fleur bunched up the yarn and jumper on the table and beamed before making her way to the source of her coveted liquid gold.

Ellery Montfort, her co-conservator, tilted his head in greeting before handing her a large coffee from town.

The things I do for you, he said, glaring without heat.

Fleur grinned and kissed his cheek. Thanks! You know you’re the best.

Ellery huffed out a snort. Despite his dour disposition, he treated her like a pesky younger sister. Fleur gravitated to him because he had the same name as her father. Whoever thought a name couldn’t bridge the loneliness of loss hadn’t experienced this living proof.

Thoughts of her parents only left a dull ache in her chest now. For a long while after being separated from her brother, she had cried almost every night. Cried for her lost family. Cried for her lost name. By the time she emerged from her self-imposed hibernation after leaving New York and moving to England, she no longer called herself by her second name, Angelique. Henrí had opted to use his first name, Alain. They chose different surnames to hide their identities further. She became Fleur Fenwick, and he became Alain Guerrer.

Fleur hummed in appreciation as the coffee hit her palate. The liquid was smooth, and no granules floated up to the surface. She could drink the beverage to her heart’s content. Coffee at the turn of the twentieth century was nothing like this smooth as you please brew.

Did you get what you needed from town? she asked.

I did, Ellery said, raising the jute bag he had brought with him. And got to enjoy the sunshine. Did you get to practice whatever you do with your crochet needles?

Fleur looked at her co-worker in wary amusement. Yes, I did. Almost finished with the sleeve of the jumper I’m making.

Ellery looked down, but there was a knowing twitch on his lips. If you say so.

What’s that supposed to mean? Fleur asked just as she was about to take another sip.

Frank James, Craven-Hoyle’s long-time chauffeur, descended the stairs carrying a huge box of office supplies.

Wow, you really went on a shopping spree! Fleur laughed with delight, putting her coffee down, and moving some of the fragile documents to another table. Thank you, Frank.

The silver-haired chauffeur placed the box down on the shiny wooden surface before he smiled. No problem, Miss. When will you be going out to do some shopping?

Fleur turned back to Ellery, who was busy taking out the contents of his bag. Her lips curved.

From the looks of it, not in a long while.

She preferred it that way. Besides, she enjoyed visiting the gardens when she could, especially through the line of trees that led to a clearing.

And practice.

Fleur had made sure that she was discreet when she practiced in the woods. Sometimes, when she opted to stay the night in the mansion, she’d wake up at the crack of dawn and go to that special clearing to... crochet. Or when Ellery left for Craven-Hoyle’s other estate.

Now, she wasn’t too sure.

Fleur sipped from her cup, her thoughts drifting. Should it alarm her that Ellery and maybe Craven-Hoyle knew what she did? She didn’t think so, but it bugged her that neither of them talked to her about it.

You should, you know, Ellery twisted to face her.

I should what? Fleur asked, returning to the present.

Go out. You only leave when it’s time to go home.

I’ll do that, I promise. She looked at them both. Goddess, the coffee was so good. As soon as we get these bundles of manuscripts done.

Frank and Ellery looked at each other.

What did I tell you? Ellery said with a smug smile.

You should take Mr Monfort’s advice, Miss Fenwick. Frank’s brow knitted with a little disapproval. It’s not healthy just staying inside here.

You’re sweet, Frank. She placed her hand on her chest in gratitude. But I go out walking in the gardens. I promise, I’ll go out more often and not turn as pale as the manuscripts we’re working on.

The manuscripts have more colour, if you ask me. Ellery noted.

Fleur gaped at him. I can’t believe you just said that.

Ellery grinned.

Frank’s lips twitched as he took off his hat, shoving his hair aside. I’ll leave you both to it. Good afternoon.

When Fleur began working for Benedict Craven-Hoyle three years ago, she expected her workplace to be filled with stuffed shirts, and disdainful looks from Craven-Hoyle. But her employer had been warm while Frank was friendly but reserved. Ellery was quiet, but with a rapier wit she had to get used to. Most of the time it was just her and Ellery with virtual meetings with Craven-Hoyle. Those meetings became more frequent following the lockdown. Craven Hoyle didn’t stay in the mansion that looked like a cross between a South of France Chateau and Versailles. While it was a residence off the beaten track, only the east wing of the mansion was used as the residential quarters. There was a smaller mansion on the grounds for Frank and the rest of the live-in help. Fleur made use of the opulent living quarters provided for her; but more often than not, she preferred her own flat in the Northern Quarter. She wasn’t comfortable in wide open spaces. It would be too easy to be a target. Her only concession was that trees surrounded this place, adding to a forty-foot wall and a clearing she made into her private place of Zen. She doubted whether anybody - Benedict or Frank - knew about the clearing. She had had to clear away the debris to make it into her perfect spot.

Now I can drink in peace, Ellery said, sitting behind his desk and bringing his cup to his lips. How’s the translation coming along?

Quite interesting. I didn’t think monks were interested in the Sumerian civilization. She stared down at her coffee, her brows knitting. They were isolated from the world.

Yet some of them went to the Crusades, Ellery quipped.

Absolutely, to secure Jerusalem, she said against the rim of her cup. I doubt they had the time or the inclination to risk going outside the gates and unearthing Sumerian artifacts.

It must have been difficult to understand the symbols when the Rosetta stone had yet to be discovered.

Well, we’re not working on Egyptian hieros, she commented wryly.

Ellery grunted. How far did you get?

Far enough. The page is back in the preservation room.

Find anything interesting?

She winced when pain wriggled up her side. Nothing of importance. Just what the Sumerians did daily.

Ellery’s blue-gray eyes were shrewd.

Fleur frowned. What?

He reached for something on his desk and gave it to her.

What’s this? She opened the flap and read the contents, her eyes growing wider. You can’t be serious!

Ellery rubbed his forehead almost in resignation.

I said the same thing.

But this is in two days’ time, she exclaimed. How can Benedict expect us to finish the latest batch for exhibition by then?

There went her plans to stay home and finishing the sweater she was crocheting and volunteering in one of the cancer charities in the city.

There went her plan of hooking up with some random guy to give her vibrator a holiday.

And here you were telling me to get out more often, she grumbled.

Ellery huffed. Story of our lives, and I had plans tonight.

Now we’re talking! Fleur’s frown faded, and she beamed from the rim of her cup before winking. A Halloween date, huh? Cool.

Yes, he said, his smile closed lipped before taking another thoughtful sip of his coffee.

Fleur kept her smile hidden. Ellery Monfort had a quiet appeal to him that drew women to him. More like kittens to a moving stuff toy. Expressive eyes with the suave attraction of a fighter jet pilot, calm in the face of danger. His dark and silver hair curt short was a genetic trait considering he had just turned thirty. She never heard him raise his voice even when her own was two decibels up.

You should go, Fleur declared. Like you said, we need to get out more often.

Ellery snorted, his chin jutting out. But what about this?

Fleur stared at the letter. How much have you translated?

About half of it, both of us did. Plus, what you finished before banishing the document to the naughty room of preservation?

I just have to do some finishing touches on the illustrations and I’m done with the page. But there are still two vellums left in the bundle Benedict wants done a.s.a.p. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. We can show him what we already have and let him see there’s still a lot unfinished. It just can’t be done, Ellery.

He nodded.

What do you say to starting bright and early tomorrow?

He hesitated.

C’mon, Ellery. If I have to do another long shift, I need to get a change of clothes from my flat. And you have a date! she paused, angling her head to one side. What do you think your date will say if you postponed it to another time?

He huffed out a laugh and looked away, but not before Fleur saw the hurt that passed his face.

Her heart went out to him. She stood and walked to his side, and squeezed his arm. Ellery’s eyes held hers.

Let’s live a little, she urged. We’ve been working our butts off for over a month. As long as Benedict can see how far we’ve accomplished, I’m sure he’ll be fine with us leaving early. You’re the senior officer present, you decide.

Fine, he said, heaving a sigh. But we start at seven tomorrow morning on the dot.

3

Frank dropped them off by the Central Library and arranged to pick them up in the same place early the next day.

Have a great night, Fleur called to Ellery as they parted ways. She inhaled deeply. There was a nip in the air she associated with the Christmas season despite it just being Halloween. People strode towards the very centre of the shopping district to partake of food and drink at the Christmas Market. Fleur’s very strong sense of smell picked up the delicious scents of grilled meats and drink from the sudden breeze passing through.

She made her way to Piccadilly, her sense of wonder growing at the thousands of lights across Piccadilly Gardens including the Santa Claus made up of red and green lights. The place had been transformed into a Winter Garden. People wore masks but many also did away with the contraption preferring to make the most of the open air.

But unlike ordinary humans, Fleur didn’t have to worry about contracting the virus that had gripped the entire world. Firebinders quickly healed. The moment the virus hit her, the fire in her blood burned it to nothingness. Still, she kept her mask on. The last thing she wanted was to bring attention to herself from people’s disdainful looks at those not wearing masks at all.

Fleur went to one of the stalls for mulled wine, paying for the mug she decided she’d bring home. She couldn’t remember a time when she did not collect a mug from the yearly Yuletide display long before she began working for Craven-Hoyle. However, it looked incongruous to see skulls, ghosts, and pumpkins shoulder to shoulder with Old Saint Nick and lights in the shape of stars and bells.

She sat down on one of the vacated seats and people watched. The pandemic had done a number on everyone and the atmosphere was not as lively at it used to be. Even her favourite stationery shop had not been spared as so many other eating establishments which had no choice but to close down permanently. Internet shopping had never seen a bumper crop as it had now. Still a smile hovered on her mouth. She was looking forward to receiving the needles she ordered online. She had a whole shelf dedicated to a myriad of colours of yarn but not enough needles. Crocheting and knitting was her go to for relaxation, and more. And she couldn’t wait to see what she could do to enhance them.

She strode towards Lever Street and stopped when two buses drove past, walking through several streets with boarded up shops to reach her apartment. She strode along the pavement, the dark, cold and comforting. Living on the edge of the city’s perimeter had its perks. It was a quiet area, nearly isolated without being too conspicuous. And Fleur didn’t have to wake up to the sound of jackhammers pounding the pavement or the smell of petrol and diesel fumes.

She was enjoying the last of her mulled wine when she noticed some louts harassing an elderly couple. The woman was shouting at them, fear and despair in her voice, while the man kept trying to get his cane from one of the louts holding it aloft and out of reach.

Hey! she stormed over. Give that back.

They hooted as they approached her.

Shit.

Trepidation was as cold as water across her chest and down her spine. But there was no way she’d watch hapless people being terrorized and not do something. Fleur noticed another man in the shadows, the lamplight above his head keeping his face obscure. Her brow puckered when she saw two bright tiny green orbs floating where the man’s eyes should be.

Mind your own business, bitch, said the one who looked like the leader dressed in a tracksuit.

Give me back my cane, the old man shouted trying get his cane back before he was pushed against his companion. The woman gave a strangled cry as she tried to keep standing.

I’ll give it back to you when I’m good and ready. Tracksuit snapped without taking his eyes off Fleur.

Fleur inhaled. She expected stale beer and weed, not a luxury brand of woodsy and leather cologne.

Her pulse beat hard in the centre of her chest all the way to her head. Since transferring to the Northwest of England, she’d never been in a situation where young people mocked others let alone the elderly. The stark fear emanating from the couple fueled her bloodfire. She gripped her ceramic mug tighter.

Give. Him. Back. His. Cane.

Tracksuit leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose.

No. His lips pursed and he looked at her down his stub nose. So, what are you going to do about —

Fleur threw what remained of her mulled wine at the yob’s face.

What the fuck!

Before he could retaliate, Fleur slammed her palm against his Adam’s apple in a lightning strike that would have made a cobra proud.

Tracksuit’s eyes bulged. He dropped the cane to grab his throat.

Oi! Whadya do to ‘im! Tracksuit number two ran to his gasping leader. The rest momentarily stiffened in meerkat form their eyes bulging out of their sockets as they looked at her. Wariness began creeping into their body language.

I didn’t do anything, she said unruffled, retrieving the cane. Now, move on.

The solitary girl in the pack glared at her. Not for a long while, bitch. The girl ran at her, her long fingernails looking like a pterodactyl’s talons.

Fleur lifted the cane to parry the girl’s blow meant for her face. Then the rest of the group joined in the fray.

Shit.

Sorry, Fleur shouted at the couple before she broke the cane in two, vaguely hearing the woman’s gasp and the man sputter.

She went on the offensive as hands tried to grab her. There was a rip, the tear spreading across her body in a line of pain but she didn’t have time to find out. She stabbed the lower part of the cane hitting someone behind her in God knows where. A pained squeal followed. Good.

Strike one.

She parried another blow with the other section of the cane, rapping it hard on the arm, neck, then rib of the attacker on her left. Then she used the curved handle to grab him around the neck and throw him against the wall.

The girl lunged for her again, screaming obscenities. At the last minute, Fleur crouched and whirled on the soles of her feet sweeping both sticks against the girl’s legs.

The girl screeched as she fell, landing on her back with a hard thud and air whooshed out of her.

Strike two.

Another lunged for Fleur but she rolled away and her assailant toppled over.

Strike three.

Enough!

The group stopped turning to the man in the shadows before pinning Fleur with seething looks and heaving breaths. They pulled away like crumpled curtain folds, holding parts of their bodies injured by the cane. The only thing running through Fleur’s mind apart from her deep exhales was gratitude that she hadn’t stopped training.

Alain would have been proud.

She straightened as the man stepped away from behind the street lamp in an ensemble of dark jeans, a suit jacket over a button-down shirt. The rucksack she carried remained strapped to her back, the contents too valuable to leave lying around. But her mug was on the ground in broken pieces.

Shit, so much for her collection.

Her gaze briefly settled on the elderly couple cowering by the awning of a closed newsagent’s store. The helplessness in the elderly woman’s eyes ignited her bloodfire even more and she had to grip both sticks hard to stop her eyes from showing what was inside her.

Do you have the habit of interfering in situations which are none of your business? the man from the shadows asked, his voice sounding like he smoked ten packs a day for years.

Do you have a habit of assaulting people? Fleur shot back, her breath sawing in and out of her.

He shrugged innocently. I didn’t even touch them.

But you let your people to that. She shot back.

She retreated, still facing the man until she reached the couple.

I’m sorry I broke your cane. I’ll replace it, I promise, she said between puffs of air.

I’ve been trying to get rid of that cane for years. The elderly gentleman let out a nervous half-hearted chortle. Gives me a reason to spend on a new one. No need to replace it.

At least someone’s found humour in this.

I need you both to go now, please, she said.

No.

Her lips thinned. The last thing she needed was a recalcitrant fool. I can’t know what they will do next.

I want to help.

Patience is a virtue, virtue is a grace ...

Then call the police for me, she said. It was getting harder not to keep her eyes on her attackers.

Harry, let’s go please, the woman urged.

Fine, fine. Harry grumbled. If it shows me saving you from more harm.

Fleur’s lips pulled to one side.

Oi! What are you laughin’ at?

None of your goddamn business! she retorted. Then back to the couple. You need to go. Now.

Fleur let go of the sticks and shrugged off her rucksack. Opening it, she grabbed the harmless objects that became weapons in her hands. One of her assailants approached her again. She bristled. The fire she tamped down earlier burst. Her body heated and she felt her eyes start to change. She stood and closed in on him.

Don’t...even...try, she said softly and her lips curved at the attacker’s surprise. Step...back.

You have no business ordering my crew around, the weirdly green-eyed man spoke. His voice was guttural, more animal now than human.

She transferred her attention. What’s happening to your throat? You sound like a cross between bullfrog and well... a bullfrog.

The stranger growled.

What the hell, Fleur?

Fine, she shouldn’t have goaded the stranger. But the combination of Benedict’s order to finish the manuscripts, her broken Christmas Market mug, and the desire to get back to her apartment as soon as possible had her bloodfire singing in her veins, wanting to transform.

No.

She wouldn’t explode and give in to the stranger’s goading. The group was composed of just children compared to her for Chrissake!

Look, I don’t want any trouble. We’ll just leave. She retreated, checking the path behind her for any obstruction.

Big mistake.

Before she even drew a breath, the stranger was in