Page 42 of Fire Dancer
“For story time?” Nash asked.
“You’ll see,” Ingo murmured.
Smart man, because story time with a pyromancer was truly something to behold.
Claire sat nestled in Mike’s lap, right beside my father, who turned to her.
“All right, young lady. Where does the story begin?”
“On Painted Rock Ranch,” Claire said immediately.
I grinned. All of Claire’s stories started on the ranch, but my dad had a way of thinking big.
He thought for a moment, then pulled back his sleeves, raised his hands, and started.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Claire…”
Mike patted her on the head, and she grinned.
“Claire lived on Painted Rock Ranch with the best mom in the world…”
Abby’s eyes danced. She hadn’t had a lot of positive feedback as a kid, but my father and Erin’s did their best to make up for that. And, hey. Dad was right. Abby might have some issues, but she was a doting, loving mother to a great kid.
“Claire had a dog named Roscoe, two supersmart aunts, and the world’s best grandpas…” my father continued.
“And a new uncle,” Claire threw in. “Nash.”
Nash grinned, as did Erin. Mike fought to maintain a neutral expression.
“And an uncle and lots of horses and other great things,” my father continued. “But there was one thing Claire didn’t have, so one day, she galloped off on her horse, Star, to find it.”
Up until that point, the bonfire had been snapping and crackling in the usual way, with a thick, central blaze and smaller flames swirling up toward the stars from there. But then…
My father wiggled his fingers. “Claire galloped fast and far, following the creek for miles and miles…”
The fire burned lower and wider, and a meandering shape formed in the center. A river of flames, you could say, snaking this way and that.
“She galloped over the desert and into the mountains…”
The flames bunched and reformed, throwing up flat-topped mesas and jagged peaks.
“She galloped so fast and so far, she ended up in medieval times…”
I chuckled. A slight jump in logic, but hey. Pyromancers had a way of getting away with whatever ignited their fancy.
One side of the fire flared, forming a castle — an entire castle, right down to tiny flaming flags that danced at the corners of the towers.
Claire clapped, while my sisters and I oohed and aahed. Nash’s jaw hung open.
“Show-off,” Mike grumbled.
Any pyromancer could control fire, but only the most skilled could do so with such precision. So skilled, there was a special name for them: Fire Dancer.
“Oh, hush. You’ll get your part soon,” my dad stage-whispered, then went back to his story. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. As it turns out, Claire was a princess in medieval times. A princess and a brave knight, all in one.”
The flames died down briefly, then reformed.
“Whoa,” Nash murmured as a ghostly horse and rider galloped through the heart of the blaze, kicking up a wake of swirling flames.