Pyro: A Fire Novella Read online

  "I slept hard," I croaked, "like I was getting paid for it."

  My jaw cracked as I yawned. I had fallen into a deep and dreamless stupor fueled by jet lag and turkey. Mom had made a feast to celebrate my coming home. Dinner was nice, but it would have been nicer if Jack hadn't kept glaring at me from across the table. I hoped today he'd be over whatever funk he was in.

  "Good, you needed it," Mom said, turning back to the view. I poured myself a coffee and went to stand beside her. The view behind our house was of Swallowtail Park, a large stretch of land that had once been owned by a farmer named Rudolph MacLeitch. When MacLeitch died, the land passed to his only daughter and she'd sold it to the city. By that time the green space was beloved by Saltford. It was never developed.

  MacLeitch's old farmhouse and barn were now boarded up, and the forest continued to grow in around them. The crooked weathervane on the old barn could still be seen from our picture window, poking up through the canopy of trees. It was more the sight of that old weathervane than anything else that made me feel like I was home.

  Mom put a hand to my forehead, frowning. "Your temperature is only a little above normal, but it’s clear you're fighting something." She shook her head. "It's that recycled plane air. Nothing will make you sick as fast as breathing the vermin of a hundred and twenty other people for eight hours or more."

  "Ew. Gross." I made a face. "I'm fine. I promise."

  "You still sound terrible," she said. "I might make an appointment with Dr. Jacques for you."

  "Please don't do that." My stomach did a little flip. "I feel perfect."

  "Better to be on the safe side, honey." Dad pulled the sizzling bacon out of the oven and set it on the stovetop.

  The idea of going to see a doctor had never been pleasant, but my stomach twisted with nerves when I thought about going now that I was a full-on fire magus. What if Dr. Jacques noticed something off about me? I pressed my mouth shut. As far as I could tell, except for my eyes (and they were under control now), my physical changes were all internal, and they were clearly of a supernatural nature. I had to hope that there was nothing so different about me that I could never see a health care professional ever again. I could deal with cuts and abrasions easily by cauterizing them from the inside, but what if I broke a bone? Maybe it was better to face the music and see what the doc said, because at least then I'd know sooner rather than later.

  Our small kitchen television was on and my dad was watching the stock report as he made juice. He worked as an investor at one of the bigger banks in town. "Tune in to the news please, honey," Mom said. "It's nine o'clock."

  My dad picked up the remote and flicked it to our local channel.

  Jack came down the stairs, mumbled a good morning to no one in particular, sat down at the table, and started playing on his phone. His hair stuck up in every direction like a yellow aloe vera plant.

  "Morning, Jack," I said pointedly.

  He grunted.

  "Where's RJ?" I asked, pouring myself a coffee.

  "We're letting him sleep in a bit these days," explained Mom. "He's been playing hours of soccer every day after work. He's more tired than usual."

  "A wooden play structure in Centennial Park was lit on fire last night, along with a section of nearby trees," said the news anchor from the television. "We go now to Knots Landing community where Daniel McGregor is on site."

  We all turned to watch the report. The image showed a smoldering bunch of blackened logs and melted plastic goo. Smoke lay in a dark haze over the wreckage behind the reporter. McGregor had a grim expression on his face, like he was reporting a homicide. These kinds of things didn't often happen in Saltford. "The Fire Department has determined the incident was arson and the police have already begun an investigation to find those responsible."

  My mom set the platter of french toast on the table and turned toward the screen with her fists on her hips. "Who would do such a thing?" The indignation on her face made me bite my cheeks to keep from smiling.

  "Shhh," Dad said, putting a hand out, his brows drawn together.

  I started to laugh, but Dad gave me a look that silenced me. Someone lit some jungle gym on fire and the adults in Saltford didn't know what to do with themselves. Before Venice, I might have been just as horrified, but after being locked in a cell to burn to death at the hands of a crime family, arson that didn't actually hurt anyone seemed mild and petty. I was going to have to readjust my world view back to a small-town level.

  I caught Jack's glare and my thoughts skittered to a halt. He was drilling me with his eyes from across the table like I'd shot someone's dog.

  "What?" I asked, genuinely confused. Maybe I shouldn't make light of a burnt swing set, but the nasty look he was giving me was overkill. Jack just shook his head and dropped his gaze back to his phone.

  "We've never had anything like this happen in our neighborhood before," said a community woman with the microphone in her face. "Whoever is responsible needs to be stopped before they hurt someone."

  "It's probably the rugby team from Hudson's Senior High," I suggested. One of the high schools across town, rivals of Saltford High, had sports teams which were notorious for vandalism. Things like sheds and doghouses turned up destroyed sometimes, particularly after a losing streak.

  I caught Jack rolling his eyes as he forked three pieces of french toast onto his plate. "What's your problem?" I snapped at him.

  "Guys. Guys," said Dad, palms up. "Saxony's been back for one day, can we try and get along for at least twenty-four hours before we start biting each other's heads off?"

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  Dad poured the juice and set a cup in front of each plate. He looked at my mom. "I thought we were past this. Don't the books say teenagers are supposed to get easier?"

  Mom gave him an intense side-eye that said she didn't know which books he was reading. "Saxony's not feeling well. We're all grumpy when we're sick."

  "Honestly, I feel totally fine." I felt like a broken record.

  The news broadcast about the fire was still going on in the background. "This type of behavior is just simply not acceptable in a town like Saltford," another neighbor was saying. "Everybody knows everybody, and I hope that whoever did this doesn't think they can get away with it."

  "Sweetheart, would you mind turning that off?" Mom said.

  Dad leaned back to snap off the TV.

  I paused with my orange juice halfway to my lips as I watched Jack shove a whole piece of french toast into his mouth and chew, cheeks bulging like a tuba player.

  "Wow, did they not feed you while I was away? You know that no one is going to take it away from you, right?" I said, lightly. I was trying to ease the tension between us.

  Jack pushed his empty plate away and stood up abruptly. "I'm done here," he said with his mouth full and with another glare at me. He swallowed the barely chewed food; it must have hurt. "Can I go?"

  His lip curled with disgust. His expression was more than simple annoyance with a sibling. I blinked, stung, as he vacated the table without waiting for a response from anyone. I set down my orange juice, locked my jaw, and went after him.

  I sprinted up the stairs and caught him in the hallway between our two bedrooms. Jack and I were the only ones with bedrooms on the upper floor. I grabbed his elbow and turned him toward me, trying to keep my voice steady. My temper was far more under control since my experience in Venice, but I still had my limits. "What did I do to you, Jack? I don't get it."

  His eyes flashed as he faced me and I took a step back. "I know you lit that fire last night," he hissed so our parents couldn't hear. "I don't know what happened to you in Venice, but I don't even recognize you anymore."

  A rat began to gnaw through my insides. My heart began its powerful thud, but this was not like facing Dante. This was my family, not some bully I would never see again. Surprise froze my tongue into place. Everyone who knew I was a fire magus wasn't even on the same continent as me. There was no way Jack
could know anything. I shook off the spell and opened my mouth to protest, but I took too long.

  "See, you can't even deny it," Jack said.

  "Jack, I—I don't know what you're talking about." I stumbled through the words. I sounded guilty even to myself, but only because he'd taken me so off guard. "I was in bed, sleeping like the dead all night last night. Why do you think I set that stupid little fire? I would never—"

  "Save it," he seethed.

  Jack's boyish face had been transformed by righteous fury. He didn't recognize me? Who was this guy? He disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door in my face.

  I felt like he'd gutted me with a fish-knife. I knocked. "Jack, I had nothing to do with that fire. I promise you."

  "What's going on up there?" Dad said from the bottom of the stairs. "Are you going to come finish breakfast?"

  "I've lost my appetite," I said, loud enough so that Jack could hear it though his door. I headed to my bedroom.

  "Let them go," I heard Mom say from the table. "Saxony isn't well and Jack's just in a funk because RJ is getting all the attention lately. They'll sort themselves out."

  "Ugh," my dad groaned. "Teenagers."

  Chapter 3

  "Another one?" I heard my mom cry from the kitchen the next morning, a Monday. Mom and Dad both had work today.

  "Another what?" I asked as I turned the corner into the kitchen.

  My parents were huddled in front of the television. Dad looked over his shoulder at me. "Another fire last night. This one was in the harbor."

  "Not the Sea Dog, I hope." I peered in between their shoulders. "It wouldn't be fair for something like that to happen to Phil, not after he already lost everything in the flood." Phil was the owner of a restaurant that looked like a pirate ship. Targa's dad helped to build it way back before we'd been born. It was beloved by the locals as much as it was by the tourists.

  "It wasn't the Sea Dog," said Mom. "But it wasn't some cheap little dinghy, either." She moved away from the screen to let me see. The same reporter as the day before was standing on the beach. Behind him, the smoking wreckage of a small yacht lay half out of the water, encircled by caution tape.

  "Police are unsure if the perpetrator or perpetrators are the same as the ones who lit the jungle gym yesterday," the reporter was saying. "Police urge anyone who might know something to contact them."

  Mom took a swig of her coffee and put her mug into the sink. "Saltford is getting too big. We should think about moving to Devon." Devon was a nearby town of 6000 people. It was backwater compared to Saltford's 180,000.

  "Got to run," Dad said, kissing her cheek. "And I know you don't mean that." He looked at me. "Feeling better?"

  "I never felt bad," I intoned.

  Just then Jack came down the stairs. His eyes fell on the screen and widened.

  "You have an appointment with Dr. Jacques this afternoon at three," my mom said as she went to the foyer and toed her way into a pair of black ballet flats. "Don't forget. Are you okay going alone or do you want me come with you? I could meet you there."

  "No, it’s fine," I said. "He's just going to tell me to drink liquids and sleep it off."

  "There is something going on, or you wouldn't sound like Leonard Cohen," Mom said, dropping her chin. There was no point in arguing with her.

  My parents said goodbye and left in the van. The real estate office where Mom worked was on the way to Dad's bank, so he always dropped her off and picked her up.

  Jack mumbled something from the kitchen and I went to find him, bracing myself for more freaky accusations. "What did you say, Jack?"

  "I said—" He turned to face me, his face a storm cloud. "—how did you do it?"

  "How did I do what?" My eyes fell on the television screen just as the image of the burning yacht disappeared and they cut to a commercial. A stone of dread dropped into my gut. "You don't think that I had anything to do with that?"

  "I know you did," he said. The certainty on his face made even my blood feel cold.

  "How do you know?" I cried, my hands out in surrender. "Why are you so convinced that I've been running around late at night setting fire to things that aren't mine? It's crazy."

  "I agree, it is crazy," he said. "Consider yourself caught, Saxony. I can't prove it, but I know it was you. You need to stop this," he pointed at the television screen, "and you need to get help."

  "Whoa," I said. The kitchen seemed to spin and blur in my periphery. It was giving me vertigo to hear these things come out of my little brother's mouth. "You're messing with me, right? You're still mad about what happened before I left for Venice, and you're having some fun screwing with me."

  But even as I was looking into his eyes, I knew that it wasn't the case. There were no cracks in his conviction. I knew my little brother, I could recognize the signs of a practical joke. There was something else going on here, something Jack needed to explain.

  He stormed past me. "I can't even look at you," he said under his breath.

  A panicked bird flapped in my chest and I grabbed at his elbow as he left the kitchen. "Jack," I said, my voice cracking. "I don't understand. Just stay and talk to me."

  He yanked his elbow out of my grasp. "I can't talk to a liar. I can't believe a word you say anymore." He shoved his feet into his skateboard shoes in the foyer and without a last look, he was gone.

  I sat down hard into a chair at the dining room table, confused, stung.

  Like most services in our community, Dr. Jacques’s office was not far away. In the afternoon, I retrieved my town bike from the garage, strapped my purse across my body, and headed out for my appointment. Summer was still evident in the green leaves on the trees and freshly cut grass, but there was a coolness in the air, a warning that snow was not all that far away. But it wasn't the weather that was on my mind. For the first time since my transformation, I was going to be examined by a health professional. What would he find? Besides a temperature that ran slightly too high, what else might give me away? Would he notice something strange about my eyes? When he looked down my throat, would he see flickering flames?

  Visions of a balding man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck running screaming from an examination room scampered through my imagination. I wondered if I could get away with skipping this appointment and my mother not finding out. But Annette Cagney was a sleuth, especially when it came to her children. I had no choice but to go through with it, and I had to admit that I was a bit curious, myself.

  I jammed the front tire into the bike rack and crossed the parking lot toward the clinic. I got myself checked in and the nurse showed me to a private examination room. I sat in one of the chairs, wrapping and unwrapping my headphone cord around my phone, inner tension mounting.

  The wait seemed to stretch out for hours and just as I had convinced myself that this was a terrible idea and got up to sneak out, the door opened and Dr. Jacques came in. He was a slender, balding man with glasses. He'd been my doctor since I was born.

  "How is my favorite redhead?" Dr. Jacques said as he closed the door. "Your mom said you haven't been feeling well?"

  "Actually, I feel completely fine," I said. "My voice has just gone a bit scratchy, and that has my mom's alarm bells going off."

  "Yes, you do sound like you have something going on with your throat or chest," he said. "Pop up on the bench, and let's take a look."

  I sat down on the examination table and the paper they covered it with crinkled under my butt. Beetles of worry crawled up and down my spine. I took a deep breath.

  "Open wide for me, please?" Dr. Jacques said, with a small penlight in hand.

  My jaw creaked as I opened. He looked for a long time. I watched his brow for signs of concern for alarm.

  "Huh," he said. "Is your throat sore?"

  "Uh-uh," I grunted.

  Dr. Jacques pulled back and I closed my mouth. He hadn't run from the room screaming, so that was good. At least, he hadn’t run away yet. He turned and picked up a ther
mometer and stuck the silver end into my ear. I heard it click and a moment later it beeped and he pulled it back and looked at the digital reading.

  "Well, you are running a touch above normal," he observed. "But it's nothing to get too worked up about."

  He went about listening to my heart and my lungs, asking me to breathe deeply in and out. The routine was familiar, and helped to calm me. He asked me if I had noticed any changes in weight, how I was sleeping, how I was eating and digesting, and if anything had changed suddenly in my life. I told him I'd spent the summer in Venice and my diet had changed, but that was it. I kept my eyes on the floor while I downplayed my answers. He felt my glands with warm fingertips and inspected my eyes with a light.

  "What's the diagnosis, doc?" I finally asked, lightly.

  "Well," he said, peering at me from over his glasses. "If your throat isn't actually hurting you, then I'm a bit mystified as to why your voice sounds so scratchy. And the fact that you're running a low-level fever is a sign that your body is fighting something. I'm hesitant to prescribe antibiotics at this stage, though I would consider it if your fever went up. Nothing else seems to be abnormal, although looking down your throat proved to be more difficult than it might be for most."

  "Why is that?" I asked, twisting my hair into a rope just to give my hands something to do.

  "Well, it's very dark in there. Perhaps you have a narrower bronchial passage than most. Funny, it’s not something I remember about you," he murmured, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  His comment triggered something I'd imagined after my burning—that my insides were now like volcanic rock, black and hard. I didn't think that was actually what I looked like on the inside, but it sort of felt that way.

  "I recommend you get plenty of fluids, and plenty of rest. Don't do anything to excite yourself and we'll just keep an eye on that fever, shall we?"

  "Okay." I hopped down. "Are we finished?"

  Dr. Jacques picked up his clipboard and put a hand on the door handle. "For now. I'll give your mother a call this afternoon and tell her not to fret."