Ignite

{Prologue}

­October 13, 1866

New Orleans, Louisiana

                Rowland Tempest stood at his study’s window, looking out across the moors and swamps. How cruel a punishment to have this house only for himself, with no one to share it. But Rowland Tempest liked to be alone, isolated from the hubbub of people and their narcissistic ways. After all, he was immortal and had grown quite fond of the quiet. It allowed time to think, to ponder the next steps of his blessed carnival which he had started back in the eighteenth century. Perhaps I should write a book, he thought bleakly. A book that will share all my secrets of the Carnival and my immortal, boring life.

                He chuckled to himself quietly. It would’ve been a rather long book.

                His thoughts quickly vanished as the clatter of horse hooves echoed beyond the mansion’s front gates. He sneered. How rude for someone to come at this God-awful hour of the night. With a quick brush up in front of the mirror placed decadently on top the fireplace, he looked at his pale face. He hadn’t seen the sunlight for ages and the black and blue moons under his eyes made him look criminal. He looked at the young man staring back at him, a ghost of something that had once seen joy.

With a last slide of the fingers on his hair, Rowland strode across the study’s room to its doors. His hand stopped inches away from them as the terrified whinnying of horses carried into the room, loud as church bells. Rushing to the window, he plastered himself against its cold glass to catch the carriage bolting out of the front gates of his mansion. At the pit of the stairs leading to the front doors was a crumpled heap. It didn’t seem to be moving.

The doors to the study opened. Rowland hardly seemed to notice at all as the tall, ancient man stalked across the room to his side.

“Painslo, tell me, what was all that nonsense about?”

The butler arched an eyebrow, a scraggly white eyebrow. “It’s a lil’ gerl Sir,” Painslo said.

Rowland tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Is she dead?”

“No Sir. They seemed to have left in quite a hurry. Shall I bring her in Sir?”

“Yes, Painslo,” Rowland sighed. “Let’s see her now.”

With a slow but short nod of the head, Painslo exited the room, his tailcoats of his dusty black suit twitching against his long strides.  He stopped short however and turned around. He stood looming over Rowland, revealing a small note from the inside of his coat.

“What is this Painslo?”

“A letta’ Sir,” Painslo let out a wheeze. It would be time for a new butler soon. “It was on the lil’ gerl.”

Taking the letter, Rowland read through it quickly.

                My Dearest Love,

I suppose you wouldn’t remember me darling, but it is me Emmaline. I write this very quickly as I cannot take this torture anymore. Rowland, you have a daughter. Her name is Jane Shivalynn Tempest. She takes after you. There is no doubt since she can do magic. At first it was charming, it reminded me of you Darling, but things changed. Jane has been cursed by something quite evil. She has become demonic and I am frightened. It happens only while she is sleeping, but I still fear. Her intentions are kind, but she is strange I am afraid. She has quite the temper, like you, and I can’t handle the screaming, the priests, the holy water. Nothing has worked. She is still having visions. So I have come to the conclusion that you will take her and deal with her. I have done my share in bringing her up and I feel it is your duty now as a Caster to teach her the ways of your kind. I see you being quite fond of her and I am sure all will go well, but as for now, I am off to do what I’ve always wanted to do. I have left with her a book that you left behind that night. I’m sure you have missed it.

                                                With love and thanks,

                                                                Emmaline La Rauxse

Rowland, his eyes shifting to the crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, frowned. A very recognizable book lay next to the girl, her fingers curled slightly on top. It was the black book he thought had been lost centuries ago, back when he had stayed within the gates of Athens, Greece.

 “Shit.”

~

The girl sat upright in the chair of the study, her lips slightly pouting. Her ice blue eyes wide as saucers as she watched Rowland pace back and forth in front of her, holding the crumpled letter.

“It says here your name is Jane?”

The girl nodded. Rowland looked at her from the corners of his eyes as he paced. His face seemed to stare back at him, complete with the same thick hair black that shinned like raven wings.

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“And why did your mother leave you?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“You don’t know?” Rowland breathed, exasperated. How could she not have told her?

“Do you have any idea if she will be coming back?”

“No.”

“Good heavens child! What possessed you then to just commend to coming here? Do you even know who I am?”

“Rowland Tempest, Sir.”

“No, I mean yes…but I am-” the words stuck in his throat like tar. “I am your father.”

“I know.”

Rowland’s eyes bugged slightly as he stopped amidst his pacing. This child was infuriating. “What?”

“I knew you were my father Sir…I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Emmaline had been right, this girl was strange.

“Then you know you have magic,” Rowland said through his teeth. He was looking down at the girl now, looming over her.

“Yes.”

“Show me, I don’t believe you.”

Jane squinted her eyes at him and leaned back in the chair, her dress crinkling. “I can’t control it yet Sir.”

“Stop calling me Sir,” Rowland said. “Rowland will do just fine.”

“Rowland, I cannot do magic by command,” Jane said.

Rowland, despite himself, suddenly struck her across the face. He waited, an eager grin just visible on his lips. Her head still hung low, a trickle of blood working its way down her cheek where one of his rings had caught at her fair skin.  And before another second drifted by, he was pinned to the ground by the darts from the dart board. Flames ignited everywhere. Papers crackled and decayed into black ashes. A wine bottle spilled, knocking over a glass of it on a table nearby.

“Stop,” he said calmly. Jane sat upright in the chair looking around at what she had done.

“I cannot,” She said fiercely.

Rowland freed himself from the last dart on his frock’s sleeve and jumped up with surprising energy and swiftness. He seized the girl’s arm and spoke to her in the most calming voice he could produce.

“You’re a child Jane, use your imagination.”

And with that the flames were gone. The darts back on the dart board, the spilled wine back in its glass, the bottle undisturbed. And the paper, miraculously back on his desk in neat- or as neat as he had had them- rows. It had happened in a blink of an eye.

Rowland looked down at the girl, still in his harsh grasp. “How peculiar.”