Helios Oracles

Book 1 of the Helios Oracles I walk the streets of Los Angeles with a purpose, though were that reason known, I doubt anyone in my life would understand. His face is in my mind and has been for as long as I can remember, about as long as hers. The woman I thought was the Dark One. My enemy, my family's enemy, I was told. I think I've always had a feeling, a private and frightening foreknowledge, that the things I've been told about the future I see aren't exactly the truth. I pass down Rodeo Drive, ignoring the expensive store fronts, the endless line of flashy sports cars, the chattering women on their smartphones. The sound of stilettos making clicking sounds on the sidewalk as they pass. I have no care for the people of this city, except their existence proves to me I'm real. I'm here. I'm not a figment of my own imagination, nor are the visions I carry inside me some false promise-and curse-of what is to come. It's so easy to fall into melancholy as I brush past a trio of giggling girls with their perfectly styled hair, tiny dogs perched in dangling bags. Living accessories of the rich and want-to-be-noticed. How simple their lives are, without the complexities of carrying the future of the world in their heads. I shake out my dark hair as I turn a corner and head for downtown. These stolen moments outside the sanctuary where I live, just walking, are the only real break I have from what I can do. My heart flutters, wondering if he'll show, if I'll see him today or if I'll have to return home before he appears. We've tried to schedule moments, brief but beautiful. It seems no matter our intentions neither of us are able to keep a date. And so, I risk these trips to the surface just in case he might be here to greet me in the streets of Los Angeles. Though not exactly f*******n to me, my grandmother's hawk eye caution around me makes the sanctuary feel less a safe haven and more a prison the older and stronger I become in my power. There was a time I felt in awe of the wonders of the world above, and hoped maybe this amazing place would somehow dim the futures I see. But the visions still come, sometimes when I least expect, taking over and drawing me into the fire that feeds them. I don't begrudge my Oracle power, nor do I ignore the importance of what I do, who I am. But there are times I wish this gift had chosen another. A simple life would be so sweet to live. A life with my darling Piers. I sigh softly to myself as my sandals scuff the sidewalk, his sweet face on my mind. Then again, were I like those simpering girls, I may never have met him. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling to myself as I think of the tall, blond sorcerer. Of his angular face and lean body, gray eyes as familiar as my own, the depth of his voice delicious with an English accent. He doesn't know, at least not yet, to what extent I've seen the two of us together. He might be aware of my Oracle power, but I've never confessed to Piers I've been seeing him in my head my entire life. Piers. I cling to the name, the identity paired with his face. For many years I had no idea who he was, why he was important enough for the visions to show him to me. I had guesses, considering the content of the foresight. My cheeks pink and I cough into my hand, looking left and right with embarrassment as I pass pedestrians completely oblivious to the naughty thoughts running through my head and warming my skin. I've waited a long time to be older, to be the woman I have seen in my visions, the woman he embraces and kisses and whispers of love. Long enough. The first time I saw him, in a dark alley not far from where I now walk, I was certain I would blurt out my feelings for him-those ghostly, amorphous emotions clinging to the visions I'd carried with me since puberty struck. Instead, I stared, like a fool. Only the presence of Kayden, the young sorcerer with whom I'd arrived in that place, saved me from making an utter fool of myself. I still wonder what would have happened if I'd confessed everything to Piers that night, two years ago. To him and his werewolf friend, Charlotte. Instead, I ran from him, from both of them. But my connection to Piers and my worry for his friend woke the visions and sent me a powerful foresight about Charlotte I couldn't resist. I risked everything going to them, sharing what I'd seen about the werewoman and her fate. But even as I did what I could to save her, my heart soared being with Piers, though only for a moment. I pause at a streetlight, barely aware of the turn of bulb from red to green. My body moves with the crowd as I drift and allow tiny trickles of flame to emerge, searching the city for him as I go. I don't dare let loose my power, not here, even if it might mean tracking him down, being able to spend time with him. Things have changed a great deal since our first meeting, though not as much as I'd like. Not his fault. Mine entirely. It's so hard to break the ingrained fear of outsiders, to share things that I've been told are for Oracles only. It's so tempting to reach out and find him, to let the flames burn and sizzle their way around Los Angeles until I feel his presence. But there are too many magic-gifted people in this city, and I've been taught well enough to keep my presence secret. "Our family must never be revealed." How many times have I heard those words pass my grandmother's stern lips? "The Oracles of Helios must remain hidden from other magic races if our work is to be unbiased and clean of conscience." My brow furrows, toe seeking out a small rock to kick into the street as I scowl at nothing. Why, then, the sorcerers, I wonder? Of course, I've never had the nerve to ask, not even when our quiet existence in the vast sanctuary under this city was taken over by a large group of young men, sorcerers all, and their arrogant and watchful leader eight years ago. I take a break at a small café, sipping hot coffee from a small mug delivered by a smiling, stunningly beautiful barista. This city is full of women and men like her, come to chase a dream of fame and fortune in film and television. As her fingers brush mine, I catch a glimpse through flame of her, older, thinner, face marked and bruised, unconscious in a grungy bathroom with a needle in her arm. I jerk away, though she doesn't seem to notice, and sigh out a soft puff of smoke. Perhaps there is something I could do to help her, if I were permitted. And then again, perhaps not. The lives of normals seem so much more set in stone than those of other races, races with power, as though magic lends itself to flexible destiny. My fingers drum on the sides of my cup as I people watch, giving up at last on seeing Piers this trip above. I try not to let the disappointment ruin my brief freedom. I have so little time before my grandmother comes looking for me and I don't want her to catch me with him. That would be a disaster. While he's a sorcerer himself, I'm certain my stern and commanding matriarch would never understand my love for an outsider. Cup of coffee done, I move on, the complexity of my life turning my mind, as it often does when I'm here, above ground and away from the influence of my family. My first meeting with Piers has led me deeper into doubt than I ever thought possible, and has only increased my anxiety. Not because of him specifically, or the werewoman, Charlotte, whose future I saw with such clarity I couldn't help but assist her. But because of the other face which has haunted me since I was very small. I shudder despite the heat of the day when her blue eyes open in my mind. There was a time I thought I understood the reason for the visions, with her serious but beautiful face, her dark hair in a messy ponytail, the way everything about her pulsed with power. My grandmother and her sorcerer mate both pounce on every single instance of vision that deals with her. And I long believed, because of their urgings and interpretation of my vision, this mystery woman was meant to bring about the end of the world. As a girl, I found it hard to accept, my innocent heart liking her on impulse. But who was I to question Sibyl, the woman who raised me, my own grandmother? For years I allowed no thoughts to the contrary. I glance sideways into the glass of a small shop, catching my reflection, my sad, dark eyes, hunched shoulders. Meeting Piers and Charlotte changed everything. I slip my hands into the pockets of my cropped jacket, fingers encountering the silver lighter I've carried since I can remember. It was my mother's. The only thing I have left of her, and I cling to it as I turn another corner, head down another street, already lost to the sprawl of Los Angeles. My mind wanders elsewhere as my feet carry me into the deepening afternoon. It's never dark here, the street- and headlights shining over everything, illuminating the city as though it's just another kind of daylight. I slip my thumb over the cover of the smooth lighter and think of home. I really need to go back. It's almost time for dinner and Sibyl will be looking for me. She's only caught me above twice, making it abundantly clear how disappointed she was to do so. And I don't relish her glare or coldness, or her veiled threats to confine me below. I've never taken such seriously, but I know better than to push her. And yet, returning too soon means losing any chance I have of seeing Piers today. And if I go home now, Sibyl might find an excuse to sit me in the chapel and push me into foresight. It doesn't matter to her the things I see haven't changed much in several years. I'm just not in the mood to deal with her right now. Regardless how many times I dissect and review the visions, I can't bring myself to believe the explanations handed to me by my family. Doubt clouds my mind as much as my heart, because something does not seem right. It was hard to admit to myself, the night I first met Piers and his werewolf friend, Charlotte, that something was very wrong. Despite my deep-seated worries, carried with me all the days of my life, I didn't want to believe my family had been deceiving me. Other Oracles have seen what I have, if not as intensely or with such regularity. But we've all been told the same story for as long as I can remember: the woman with the blue eyes and the serious, lovely face is the enemy and we must guard against her. Why, then, does her gaze seem so kind? Even when she's destroying the world in my visions, her expression is empathetic, broken with grief. I can't bring myself to trust the word of the family anymore, though I wish things were different. But I wouldn't rewind to that night and never meet Piers. He is my destiny, the other half of my heart. And I've spent two years stealing brief moments with him. A fire flickers to my right and I turn to stare into the joyful flames. Fire is my friend, the carrier of the visions, my traveling companion and constant warmth. I drift toward the underpass and the barrel of burning trash, staying out of the sight of those who gather around it. Homeless men and women cooking who knows what over the climbing flames. I see Piers's face in the fire, unbidden, hear his voice in my head, but it's just a memory, not a true vision. If it were, I wouldn't be aware of the rough concrete under my boots or the breeze pushing hair across my cheek. I touch my lips with trembling fingers, feeling tears well. I've done my best to hide my doubt from the family, but with every day that passes, it grows more difficult and I feel rebellion grow. I'm tired of taking the word of my grandmother at the value she presents, the constant assurance I'm doing the right thing using my power to help her and the others plot to save us all. Because I fear, from what Piers has told me, they have been lying to me my entire life and now I don't know what to do about it. I turn from the fire, kicking at a small stone, hearing it bounce across the street before I continue on. The flames beg me to return, but I resist. Along with the worry I'm being deceived, the pull of the fire has grown in the past two years. I can still control it, of course, but its call is a song in my heart, begging me to embrace it fully, something I can never do. I know it's a risk. There have been Oracles lost to the flames, devoured completely by the power that is meant to serve us. I am too strong to allow it to happen to me. At least, I keep telling myself that's the case. I reach the bottom of the street and slip into the shadows. This is a bad part of town, one I visit frequently, the exhilaration of visiting a dangerous place pushing back my fears about my life. I'm in no real peril. One flick of my lighter and I'm gone, traveling the flame back home, or anywhere else I'd like to go. But being here, where the sound of gunshots is as frequent as the call of sirens, I feel alive. Present. Not some Oracle who is only good for viewing the future. But here, Zoe Helios, a person like any other, with meaning to her life outside the obvious. Twenty-one years living for the flame and the visions has left little room for me. And the more I explore, probe, examine the things I've seen, the harder it is to resist the fire. But I must know the truth. My heart won't let me get this wrong. I'm about to turn around when I feel him and everything stops. Ahead, he's there, I know it and the knowledge almost chokes me. I see him emerge from between two buildings, long, gray coat hanging to his feet, lean shoulders back, blond hair over one shoulder, falling in rippling silk to his knees. Those gray eyes greet me with joy, his lean hands already reaching out to me. He turns, heads my way from the other side of the street. Coming closer. My lips are turning into a smile, my heart beginning to race, even as a mind touches mine. Zoe. I close off immediately at the sound of Sibyl's cool curiosity. Where are you? Coming, Grandmother. I panic, chest tightening around my sudden nerves. What do I think will happen if she finds out about Piers? I don't dare find out, just in case. She knows nothing of him or my visions of us together. I want it to stay that way. I raise my hand to him, sorrowful and see him slow, stop. He nods, blows me a kiss. And lets me go. I'll see you soon, he sends, his dark power embracing me a bare moment. I wish he hadn't. It makes leaving so much harder. I jerk the lighter from my pocket, flipping open the lid. He doesn't make a sound, standing no more than ten feet away with his hands in the deep pockets of his coat. He watches with calm, adoring eyes and a small smile. One hand rises in farewell even as I strike the flame. And dive into it, terrified my grandmother might take him away from me, after all. ***