Within Gold and Glass (Book One of the Jamyria Series)

The Most Talked About Nobody (Pt. 1)

The night sky is tinged orange and dotted with sparks that ascend toward the moon through thick billows of purple smoke. The scents of chemicals and burning plastics fill her nose, which she inhales willingly. Her body blisters against the heat as she takes a step toward the rushing flames.

It is a beautiful form of purification, charring everything to the ground in one swift movement and ridding the world of its impurities. The flames roar like the ocean behind a vast stretch of ash. Her outstretched arms welcome it as it cleanses the earth in its wake. It is unforgiving. It is final. It is, or so it has been said, her destiny.

The skin of her face sears, smile fixed in place. After all, to burn in lieu of another is a noble act.

Without a thought, she plunges into the fire allowing her mind to disappear. Her final cry ebbs beyond the flames. She does not turn to ash, though, but instead shrivels sickeningly into a dried up human form left bald and naked. Nothing more than a corpse and one last recognizable trait.

A glint of gold around her wrist catches the light of the blaze.

Margo Grisby kicks her legs violently into a sitting position and hurls her body over. Ribs clutched and breaths ragged, she counts her pulse as it pounds in her head. Flames haven't visited her dreams for weeks, but it seems hell has greeted her like a distant friend. She shivers and squeezes her eyes shut tightly. So much fire...

But there is no fire here in her bedroom, only buttery walls and mismatched furniture. Slowly she cracks her eyes. Faint gray light filters through her blinds. It could pass for a rainy day. But it's simply early and overcast as St. Joseph, Tennessee, generally is in the fall.

A dream, she tells herself again as she presses the soles of her feet to the cold floor. Vivid as it was, it was nothing more than that. She swears, running her fingers through her tangled hair, partially to reassure it is still atop her head. Wiping a faint sheen of sweat from the back of her neck, she allows herself a moment to wait out the shakes.

In the other room, Margo hears the sounds of her mother in the kitchen, the aroma of hot food drifting into her room and knotting her stomach.

After one last steadying breath, she rocks up to her feet and spins into the small hallway that leads to the living room. An odd assortment of frames filled with photos from better days obscure the dark paneled walls. Since the Hederman's — the owners of their cottage and the Grisby's landlords — refuse to let them paint the paneling, Margo's mom made one too many attempts to warm the space up: from acrylic slathered canvases to bejeweled pillows. Her mother claims it takes more than dark walls to dampen the spirit of a Grisby.

Margo abruptly stops halfway across the living room as the morning news catches her attention: a second child within the past month has gone missing. This time a six-year-old girl from Alabama, not twenty miles from their farm. Disappearances near St. Joseph are rare, and twice in a month is practically unheard of. She shivers again, not certain if for the girl or the lingering nightmare.

Peeking through the pots overhanging the counter is a head of honey-blond hair, now mixed with a few white strands. "You're up early. Must be anxious to get to work."

"Anxious to be done with it." Margo plops herself upon a stool.

With buoyant laughter, she replies, "Well, I'm making my anxious daughter her favorite meal." She does this sometimes, talks to Margo as if she's still a child. A sixteen-year-old, frizzy-haired, hard-headed child. "Ham and eggs," she announces.

Margo picks at a piece of the mustard-colored linoleum countertop, pulling it up with her nail and letting it snap back in place. To her a new day just means new work. She doesn't see what it's worth being so chipper about.