Heir of the Solstice, page 1
Heir of the Solstice
Samara Saward
Copyright © 2022 Samara Saward
All rights reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover designed by: GetCovers
Formatting designed with Atticus
Contents
Dedication
Foreword
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
Also By
About Author
For Harrison, Taylor & Lacey
Foreword
Both the author and main character live in Australia. This book is written in Australian English.
one
Sighing with frustration, I kneel and scrape up the tiny pieces of chicken nuggets strewn across the linoleum floor. I’ll never understand how a toddler can make so much mess. Those chubby little fingers are digits of destruction, attached to a megaphone so everyone in the kid’s vicinity knows we didn’t cut their chicken into the right shape.
The bell above the café door chimes when the last customer for the day walks in, a leggy blonde with a perfect tan. I scowl at my own creamy complexion, my chest burning with jealousy. It doesn’t matter how long I lounge in the sun, I never tan. The occasional freckle? Sure. That glorious sun-kissed glow? Not likely.
When the floor is clean, I make my way around the counter to the coffee machine, chucking the minced nuggets in the bin along the way.
While I’m cleaning my hands, my co-worker, Elise, greets the customer with a huge smile. I roll my eyes; she’s only smiling because she won the coin toss, freeing her from cleaning up the aftermath of a toddler’s tantrum.
The blonde bombshell flicks her long hair over a shoulder with a twist of her head, like she’s a damn supermodel and does the move to earn a living. “Can I grab an oat milk cappuccino? To go, please.”
I hold in a huff of frustration. Of course, that’s what she’s ordering. A total abomination. An insult to coffee. An offence to baristas worldwide. I stamp down on the insults fighting my held tongue and get to work making her coffee-that’s-not-really-a-coffee. At least it’s the end of the day, and the last coffee I’ll make before the meet tonight.
Elise takes the blonde’s money and slips me the order docket with a weak smile. She knows I’m pissy at the request; I complain about it every time someone orders something this ridiculous. Sometimes even while the customer is still here. It’s my life’s mission to stamp out all absurd coffee orders. Caramel drizzle? Get out. Half strength mochaccino with nut extract and unicorn sprinkles? You’ll get slapped.
A girl can only dream.
The steamer hisses and splutters as milk swirls around the small metal jug. I gaze at the opposite wall while I wait for the milk to heat. Black and white photos of the nearby national park stand out against burgundy painted brick. The café is a cute little place right on the main highway. Its location ensures plenty of business, and we’re always run off our feet during peak hour. On our busiest days, I can spend hours at a time manning the coffee machine, making order after order until my fingerprints burn off from holding a boiling jug all day.
I’ve been employed at the café for around two years. It’s the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. I spent my childhood moving from foster home to foster home, with the occasional youth centre thrown in for good measure. I never settled in anywhere because the foster parents never gave me the chance to stay long enough to even unpack my suitcase. Not that I had one. Instead, it was a small red tote bag with a flower pattern on the straps.
The foster homes always gave the same reason for sending me back to the agency. They would say, “There’s something wrong with Embry. Strange things happen when she’s around. The other kids are scared of her.”
If I knew my middle name, I’m sure it’d be ‘Strange’. Because all those foster parents were right, strange things always have a habit of finding me, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. Weird things, unexplainable things, always happen around me. Lights sometimes flicker when I walk past, taps might gush water or a pipe will explode, or the temperature of a room will suddenly skyrocket. I’m always to blame for the unexplainable. The foster child. The weird and dangerous child.
Embry Bloom, problem child.
Shutting off the steamer valve, I give the jug a swirl, mixing foam into the heated oat milk. Not that there’s much. Oat milk is a bitch to froth. I take the shaker filled with cocoa powder from its shelf—
“Oh, no chocolate,” says the customer. “Sorry, I’m cutting back. You don’t get a figure like this by adding chocolate to your coffee.” She waves a hand up and down her slender frame.
I don’t think she’d appreciate the eye roll that wants to break free, or the cocked eyebrow, so I hold them both in. I place the shaker back on the shelf with a tight smile; chocolate powder is a given for cappuccinos, especially here in Australia. “No worries.”
I do a fancy design with the froth—a swan, tricky to do if you’re left handed like me—and push the plastic lid onto the paper cup, hiding the pretty picture. I take the two steps to the free counter space and place the coffee down, jerking my hand away.
Avoiding contact with skin is essential in hiding my secret… my ‘strange’. Every time I touch someone—skin to skin—a spark will zap both me and whoever I’m touching. Every. Damn. Time. Kind of makes it hard to have a special someone in your life when you can’t even kiss them without the risk of electrocution.
I’ve never figured out why it happens, and I even saw a doctor about it once. He said it was static electricity and ordered me to stop wearing insulating clothes, and make sure to moisturise my hands if it bothers me so much. He even went as far as suggesting it might be in my head. I should have grabbed his face just to prove my point.
Idiot that one.
The leggy blonde takes her coffee abomination with a grateful smile and leaves, her hair billowing behind her in the breeze. If only my hair could ever be that luscious. Instead, my shoulder-length ebony strands hang straight. No ‘oomph’ and not a wave or curl in sight.
“Sorry, Em. I know you hate those orders,” says Elise.
She’s not wrong. If you’re going to order a coffee, have it as it was intended, black with no sugar. We don’t talk about the fact that I only drink black coffee because my stomach is intolerant to dairy.
I grab a cloth from the counter and wipe the milk from the steam nozzle. “All good. Those legs of hers more than made up for her ridiculous preference in coffee.”
Elise laughs. “I know, right. I’d kill to have legs like hers.”
“You have nicer legs than me, girl. I could almost pass as a twelve-year-old because I’m so short.”
Our boss pokes his head through the kitchen door. “You’re exaggerating, Embry. You have fine legs.”
I cringe internally. Damien is an absolute sleaze ball. Whenever the opportunity arises for him to comment on any of us girls, he takes it. Usually with a wink or perusal of our bodies. This instance isn’t an exception to the rule. His eyes linger on my ass. If I didn’t need the job so badly, I’d punch him in the nose. Perve.
The bell chimes again and I roll my eyes.
Why do they always come in when we’re closing?
I look up from where I’m emptying used coffee grinds into the bin and my breath catches in my chest.
The man walking toward me is yummy. Tall, dark, and mysterious. Just the way I like them. His jet-black hair is a few shades darker than mine and otherworldly. It shimmers under the industrial lights hanging from the ceiling. His eyes are so dark, it’s impossible to make out their colour. He stalks toward the counter in an almost predatory way.
“I’m sorry, sir. But we’re closing up,” squeaks Elise.
She’s just as affected by the dark stranger’s presence as I am. Damien rolls his eyes upon seeing the slack jaws of his employees and retreats to the kitchen, muttering about vanity and ‘girls these days’.
Mr Tall, Dark, and Mysterious cocks his head to the side and leans forward slightly, his thin horseshoe moustache twitching. “But you are yet to switch off your coffee maker. You can spare two minutes for an espresso, can’t you?”
His slight accent is unplaceable. I’ll take a stab at Europe somewhere, but
We usually have a strict ‘no orders after closing’ rule. But there’s something about the man. Something… other. Everything about him screams danger. From his impeccable black suit to the glint in his dark eyes. In an instant, he’s gone from yummy to dangerous, dark, and shadowed.
Shadow Man.
I make an exception, wanting him out of the café as soon as possible. “It’s all good, Elise. I got this,” I say, grabbing a small paper cup from above the coffee machine.
Elise skitters into the kitchen without so much as a second glance. I don’t blame her. Shadow Man is intimidating as all hell. I go about making his espresso, humming a nonsensical tune, hoping to avoid meaningless chit chat.
“This is a… lovely little place. Do you like it here?” he asks.
His expression suggests he thinks the café is anything but lovely, but I play along anyway.
I shrug. “It pays the bills.”
He cocks his head to the side again, and I get the distinct feeling he’s seeing more than I’m letting on. As if he’s seeing through skin, bone, and muscle straight into my soul. I shiver at the oily feeling settling over me. That same feeling you get when a creepy old man feels you up, or someone makes an inappropriate comment.
“Have you been here long?” Shadow Man asks.
“Two years or so.” I push the lid down on his takeaway cup with a little more force than is necessary and place the cup on the counter. I’m too slow, or the man is too fast, and our fingers brush as he reaches for his coffee. The stark contrast of my light skin against his dark is like a blaring alarm. Light and dark. The words rattle my mind as a small zap of electricity shocks my hand, and I yank it back in surprise.
It’s been a long while since I slipped up and let someone touch me. Though the electrical shock was less potent than I remember it, it still occurred. Shadow Man’s eyes widen for a moment before he hides his disbelief.
Shit.
I have got to get this dude out of here.
“Two fifty, thanks,” I say in a rush, ringing up the amount on the register.
He places a fiver on the counter and I snatch it up before he can touch me again. He probably thinks I’m the world’s worst hospitality worker. I throw his change on the counter, slam the drawer of the register closed, and hightail it to the kitchen while shouting, “Have a nice day!”
The swinging double doors close behind me, thumping each time they pass their frame until they fall still. The doors are typical of a café, with windows that have horizontal mirrored strips. I peek through one of the glass lines, watching as the man leaves, throwing the untouched espresso in the bin outside.
What the fuck, man?
“Embry. What are you doing?”
I jump at Damien’s nasally voice. “That douche canoe just threw my coffee in the bin without even tasting it.”
He shrugs. “As long as he paid for it. Get back to work. I want this place clean in twenty. I’ve got places to be.”
The swinging doors thump behind me as I head into the main part of the café, rolling my eyes. Clean the whole café in twenty minutes?
He’s dreaming.
I lock the glass door and flip the swaying sign, showing ‘Closed’ to the outside world. The horn of a train leaving the nearby station has me jerking my eyes to the right. My ice blues clash with the dark orbs of Shadow Man watching me from across the street. I yank on the thin chain, closing the roller blind and blocking the mysterious stranger from view.
I slide my arms into my favourite denim jacket; it clashes with my black jeans just the way I like it. “Got any plans for the weekend?”
Elise tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve got an essay due on Monday, so I’ll probably just work on that.”
I hold the door open, letting her exit the café before me. “But I thought you were working Monday?”
Her eyes widen and she hastily searches her giant tote bag for her phone. I pocket my keys after locking the door; Damien is long gone, leaving me to close up the café in favour of heading into the city with his mates.
“Oh, darn. You’re right. He’s rostered me on for Monday.” Elise blinks back tears. “He knows I have school on Mondays. This happens all the time.”
I wrap my arm around her in a side hug. “Don’t stress. I’ll take the shift. I could use the extra money.”
Thoughts of Uncle Chilli’s worsening condition and the impending medical bills fill my mind. I need a job that pays better, but employment opportunities are scarce and a job that pays minimum wage is better than no job at all.
“Thanks, Em. I’ll owe you one.” Elise takes her train pass from her back pocket and scans it on the reader at the platform entrance.
I wave her off. “Don’t worry about it. See you later.” I wait until she’s seated on the train before heading to the parking lot. Elise is nineteen and in her first year at university. Even though I’m only six years older—and a head shorter, but we don’t talk about that—I feel over-protective and mother her from time to time.
Unease knots my stomach as I walk through the parking lot. My pulse races and my eyes dart in every direction, searching for signs of danger. Other than an exceptionally dark patch of shadow, though, the area is deserted.
“Hey, baby.” I run my hand along the grey roof of my Ford Focus before settling into the driver’s seat and rubbing my hands over the steering wheel. “Missed you.”
My phone pings with an incoming text message.
Jake: Are you coming over tonight?
Me: Can’t, sorry. I’ve got a meet.
Jake: After? You’ll need to get rid of all the pent up energy.. ;)
I ignore him. Jake’s a level five clinger who has been trying to get into my knickers for months. But even if the strange zaps I give people would back off long enough for me to lose my V-card, I would never give Jake that pleasure.
My vibrator, Bruce, is the closest I’ll ever come to knowing what sex feels like. A lot of people might think it strange that I’ve named a vibrator, but I’m set to go through life without an intimate partner. So, what’s the harm in naming the one thing able to please me that way?
Orgasms are essential to survival, after all.
I jab my finger at the start button, relishing in the sound of the purring engine, and pull out from the parking space.
The Focus ST has been my baby for six months, and she’s an absolute dream to drive. Unlike the standard small hatch, she’s a racing model. The way her tyres grip the road, the smooth ride, and the speed of her launches provide a better thrill than any drug. Since I’ve tried them all at least once, I’m confident in my conclusion.
I tend to live on the wild side of life, and I’m a firm believer in giving everything a shot; I’ve never shied away from risks, that’s for sure. It’s with one-hundred percent certainty I say no drug is worth taking a second time. Those rainbow dragons and turtles shooting beams of ice are not something I’d like to experience again.
The twenty-minute drive home is uneventful and I pull up in front of the unit I share with Achilles—a long-time friend of mine—with no thoughts of the Shadow Man or the unease from the parking lot; my mind focused on Uncle Chilli and how I’ll find him when I go inside.
I get out of the car, taking my house keys from my jacket pocket. My mood is good until I see our landlord storming up the footpath toward me with a scowl on his face.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
two
I roll my eyes but nod to the landlord from hell. “Don.”
“You’re late on rent, Embry. This is strike three, ya know?” He crosses his arms over his wide chest. “I’ve half a mind to evict you and the old man.”
Impatient bastard.
“You’ve got half a mind, alright,” I mutter under my breath, unlocking the front door.
Don changes the date rent is due every other month, making it near impossible to keep up. It’s like a game to him—how many times can he make me miss a payment before he can kick us out?
“What was that?” Don asks, his bushy grey eyebrows shooting up.
“Nothing.” I kick my shoes off. “I get paid Tuesday. You’ll get the rent that night.” I slam the door in his face.
