Solstice by Little April

Prologue

Silence.

For the longest of seconds, the world stops. A haze of flashing reds, blazing oranges and lightning yellows flicker in view; the roar of the fire ever growing, creeping closer, its flames licking the bruised and broken ground. Muffled screams pierce the silence, pitch and length stifled by the thick pool of smoke as it pollutes the air. Hands grab and stretch outward, scratching and clawing at nothing, waiting for the rescue that will never arrive. And through the haze, as the heat of the flames travels over my skin, my eyes focus on the clashing hues of the blaze.

Fire.

My thoughts are lost in the confusion - monosyllabic warnings that don't quite reach my lips have me edging toward the inferno. The flames are clearer now as they scale the walls, the smoke thick and heavy with heat.

Move.

Now.

Bodies scramble and scurry away from the danger. I move to follow, my footsteps slow and misguided, when iron clutches my bicep, the metal cool to the touch despite the building blaze behind me.

His mask remains in place, but his eyes - gleaming onyx in the firelight - are fixed on my face. His grip tightens, bruising and crushing my skin, dragging me from the destruction but not to safety. And as the ghost moves with me in tow, his movement militant and controlled, one final warning reaches the forefront of my mind.

Found.

11:56am, Tuesday 11th March 2014

Rosenwyn and James LLP

635 Twelfth Street, NW,

Washington, DC.

It's early in the afternoon, the capital sun streaming into the office building through the expanse of glass walls and extravagant mirrors that frame the remaining interior. China - the finest of my late mother's - meets glass as I set my cup of untouched coffee on the table, tired eyes roaming over the paperwork before me.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?"

The question takes me by surprise and I glance up. I offer a tight-lipped smile to the brunette in front of me, waving off the question and offer of post-meeting drinks with my usual excuse. "Now's just not a great time," I say, pairing it with a short sigh and a haggard shrug of my shoulders, the material of my black suit jacket stretching with the movement. "Maybe next time."

"Should've got a prenup," Angela tells me, rolling her eyes in response to my usual excuse, her eyes watching my every move. "Honestly, Clara," she continues, careful not to ruin her neatly painted manicure as she waves her hand in her typically Angela blase manner. "You're a founding daughter of this place," She gestures to the glass walls that surround the office floor, her ostentatious diamond ring glinting in the capital sunlight, to the word James embossed on the marble floor, "and you can afford a babysitter. Get one. Take the night off. It's what you pay that woman for-"

"She's Jake's nanny," I tell her, hardly listening, too busy arranging meetings in my head. "She doesn't work evenings and weekends-"

"So fire her and get someone else. Besides, Jake's, what, six? He's old enough to-"

"He's three."

" - to go without his Mommy for one measly little evening for drinks. You've not even hit thirty and you're acting like a prude-"

"Angela, I'm a single mother going through a multi-million dollar divorce-" As she scoffs, I shoot her a raise of my brow. "And when have I ever acted like a prude?

"- and you need to get a man or two in your bed! One night. That's all I'm suggesting. Christian has some friends-"

"Which one is Christian again?"

"He's the med student-"

"Student? Just how old is this guy, Angela?" I cock my brow in mock distaste.

She fixes me a catlike grin, eyes glinting and smile stretching over her face. "Twenty-five. Maybe a few weeks shy of that. But, my god, Clara, his body is to die for. Sign me up for a shift at the hospital any day of the week."

"You're a regular Mother Terresa," I quip, still sifting through paper and documents. "Like I said, now really isn't a great time. Do you have the Dawson and Robertson file?"

Angela rolls her eyes. "It's downstairs with Jennifer. I have my team on it. Will you think about it?"

I'm hardly paying attention now, used to tuning out Angela's provocative suggestions. I don't bother to lift my head and instead fish my phone from the black purse resting on the cold flooring. "Drinks?"

Another roll of the brunette's eyes. "Sex," she states loudly, scaring the intern that has kindly entered the room to collect the wasted china and completed documents. "And lots of it. And don't even think about signing up on one of those dating sites. We all know they're for creeps-"

I ignore her rambling, raking a hand through my hair and shooting the bashful intern a small smile. "It's Belinda, right?"

She shakes her head, a blush colouring her face and spreading across high cheekbones. "Brenda."

I nod my head in confirmation. "Right. Sorry. Brenda, has Mrs Davenport introduced you to the rest of our team downstairs?"

Angela glowers at me from over the rim of her coffee mug. "You owe me," she mutters, slamming her mug down on the table with more force than needed, the dark liquid sloshing over the sides and staining the glass coffee top. Spotting this, Brenda starts but I wave her away with my hand. "Hello, Brenda. Angela Davenport, Miss James' PA and attorney." Angela's tone is bored and uninviting.

I shoot her a look.

"Allow me to show you where the rest of our team scurry away making this firm just what it truly is." Angela steers the college student out of the office, flashing me one last glare, before rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight.

I exhale, catching sight of my appearance in the now stained glass of the coffee table. I drag my hands through my hair, a nervous habit I picked up from my father years before, and nod my head before collecting my coat, leaving the files and the wasted coffee, my black patent heels clashing against the hard marble floor.