by L. P. Maxa
“And you moved to the edge of town to try to avoid people.” She tilted her head and smoothed an unruly strand of hair on his head. “You must have been lonely and scared.”
“Mal came to see me, tried to convince me to come back for more training, but I didn’t want to risk it. I was able to control my life, and as long as I didn’t feel anything, everyone was safe.” He touched her cheek, and the fire ignited in his stomach. “Until you came along. I’ve never felt so out of control in my life.”
She laughed. “Don’t blame me. Blame Chaos. I saw you flame up when you thought he was in danger.”
“Looks like I still have to work on that tweaking Mal suggested.”
“Until then…” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, hard and demanding.
The fire exuded from his skin, but she was there to counter every flame.
When the vet came out a moment later, he probably couldn’t see anything for the steam that had enveloped his waiting room.
THE END AND A BEGINNING
Hephaestus stood beside Mal and watched his son playing soccer with a group of young people. On the opposite team was a lovely young woman who laughed as the game moved over the field. A dog ran through the legs of all the players, adding an extra obstacle. When the woman passed too close to Roman, however, he reached his arm out and caught her around the waist.
“No fair,” the woman yelled, still laughing. “That’s a foul.”
“Definitely.” Roman lifted her in his arms and planted a kiss on her lips. A puff of steam wafted between them.
Festus nodded in approval. “I never knew you were a matchmaker, Mal.”
The cat frowned. “I would never debase myself with such a title. I dunna have time for such frivolities.”
Festus chuckled. “If you say so. I’ve never seen my son laugh this much in his life.”
Mal nodded. “We can’t change the past, but we can improve the future.”
Roman’s father sighed. “I had hoped the boy would want to work beside me. He has the gift.”
“Children are only loaned to us. They have to be given their own lives.” With his head, Mal nudged his friend. “Sometimes we all have to give up control.”
“So speaks the beast that has never had offspring.” Festus laughed. “Someday I hope to throw your words back in your face.”
Mal opened his mouth to surely give a heaping load of attitude, but Hephaestus raised his hand. “Nay, save your words. I know how rare a beast you are. And now I want to meet this Amelia and see why she makes my son so happy.”
“She makes ice cream too.”
“Excellent. I love ice cream.” Festus paused. “Thank you, Mal.”
Mal growled. “I didna do it for you. The dog needed a home, and he was too big for anyone else to handle.”
Hephaestus cocked an eyebrow. “Fine. I won’t tell Roman you had that animal speaker Trask release the dog every day and tell it to go to her house.”
The fur on Mal’s forehead creased. “How did you know about that?”
Hephaestus laughed. “What’s the use in being a god if you can’t keep tabs on your kid?”
SPARKS
Sheri Humphreys
It took a moment for Brian to realize what woke him. Barking. Constant, high-pitched, frantic barking. He groaned, glanced toward the window, and froze. An all-too-familiar pattern of flickering light played across his half-open blinds. He knifed up and swung his legs out of bed as if responding to a fire alarm. Grabbing his phone, he strode to the window, confirmed that indeed a fire was burning at his neighbor’s house, and thumbed 9-1-1. Thank God. He saw Mrs. Delgado was standing on the sidewalk.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“I’m an off-duty fireman reporting a house fire across the street from me. Eleven fifty-eight Woodrow Place. It’s a single-story structure with a well-involved attic.”
The 9-1-1 dispatcher repeated the address and told him help was on the way.
“Thank you.” Brian added, “Flames and smoke are visible from the roof and gable vents. I’m going to make sure everyone’s out safe.” He ended the call and jerked on yesterday’s clothes, impatience ramping his movements into overdrive. He became frustrated even with the seconds it took to tie his sneakers.
Mrs. Delgado turned as he jogged up, hands pressed to her wrinkled, tear-streaked face. He might as well have been wearing Superman’s cape, given the amount of relief that washed across his neighbor’s face.
“Brian,” she cried, stretching out her arms.
He hugged her, giving an extra squeeze when he felt her trembling. “I called nine-one-one,” he assured her. “The fire department is on the way, and should be here in a few minutes.”
“Ginger’s in there,” Mrs. Delgado mumbled into his shirt, her voice broken and thick with tears.
Aw. Crap. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the orange cat that liked to sit in Mrs. Delgado’s front window.
They broke apart. “Any people inside? Any other pets?”
“A little dog ran in. One I’ve never seen before. It went in, came out, and went back in.”
At that moment, a tiny, long-haired, shaggy, yapping black-and-tan dog burst from the house and ran straight to them. The canine bounced so high and so often, Brian could have sworn the pup was levitating. The dog locked serious bright black eyes on Brian and hopped backward toward the burning house.
Brian pointed at the dog. “Sit.” The canine’s butt dropped to Mrs. Delgado’s lawn.
“I’ll watch him,” she said as she leaned down to pet the pup on its head.
Brian crossed the lawn to her open front door and stepped across the threshold. Inside, the whooshing, snapping, popping noise of the fire was more intense. The power was still on, and the glowing hall light provided enough illumination to check the structure’s condition. There was a light haze of smoke, but visibility was good and he could breathe. At the moment only the roof and attic were involved; the ceiling and living space were still intact, but not for long. He’d place odds on it being an electrical attic fire. Not surprising given the age of the house, and how long Mrs. Delgado had lived there without having the house rewired.
The raggedy dog turned up beside him, barked twice, and sniffed the air. “Hey,” Brian called out. The dog had escaped Mrs. Delgado. He didn’t need a second animal to rescue. “Go. Get out.” The canine barked with a ferocity that shook his little body like a castanet and took off down the hall. Brian swore and followed.
“Ginger,” Brian called. He made a quick check of the hall bathroom as he passed. “Here, Ginger.”
The pint-size dog scurried into the room at the end of the hall and commenced rapid-fire barking. Brian followed the noise and discovered the scruffy yapper on the bed, barking at a Ginger-size mound under the tossed bed covers.
Brian left the tabby covered and got a firm hold on blanket and cat. Maintaining his grip and working fast, he bundled the blanket around Ginger and gathered the struggling, yowling, wrapped cat into his arms.
“Come on,” Brian yelled to the barking pom-pom, and headed for the front door.
He was halfway down the hall when the section of ceiling between the living room and hallway collapsed, burning insulation and a concentration of smoke coming with it. Embers rained down. Brian quickly stepped over the burning debris. The little dog yipped and scrambled past. Brian hurried after, into glorious fresh air.
Engine number three sat at the curb, firefighters unloading equipment and deploying hose lines. Mrs. Delgado’s face broke into a huge, trembling smile.
“Careful,” Brian warned. “She’s panicked.” He transferred the cat-blanket bundle to Mrs. Delgado’s arms, and gave the chief a wave.
“It’s all right, Ginger,” Mrs. Delgado cooed, hugging the bundle. She kept a firm hold on the terrorized cat, continually reassuring the pet and patting the blanket.
Sharp whines pierced the racket of idling fire engine and firefighters calling to one another.
Brian gazed down at the black-and-brown pipsqueak. The pup was lying on the grass, licking his front paws. In between licks the dust mop whimpered, gaze flicking to Brian.
He crouched down and used his finger to nudge the paws and get a good look. Bright red and raw. The little mite must have burned his paws running through the embers.
“Mrs. Delgado? Do you know who owns this dog?”
His neighbor frowned. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Careful to avoid touching the paws, Brian picked up the dog. A male, he saw. The fur ball couldn’t weigh ten pounds. Beneath the soft coat, Brian felt every rib. He scanned the group of neighbors who had wakened and gathered outside, and walked across the street, greeting several he knew. “Anyone know this dog?” Blank faces, shaking heads.
The mutt began trembling. Great. Now what?
###
There were still wisps of pink in the early morning sky when Brian pulled up to the emergency veterinary hospital. He’d left Mrs. Delgado in her daughter’s capable hands, and Ginger ensconced in a fiberglass pet carrier. Firefighters remained at the scene, but the fire was out. It would be a while before his neighbor was back in her home.
“All right,” Brian told the dog. He gathered the pipsqueak up with one hand. “Let’s get you inside.”
The small emergency waiting room was empty. Brian went to the unmanned desk and rang the bell. A young woman in cat-patterned pink scrubs emerged.
“What happened here?” She gave Brian a cautionary glance as she took the fur ball into her arms.
“He ran into my neighbor’s burning house to save her cat.” The young woman lifted her brows. “I’m a firefighter,” Brian stated, as if that would explain everything.
“Okay.” She ushered them back to a treatment room, put down a soft pad on the metal table, and left Brian with the pup, a clipboard, and paperwork to fill out. The pipsqueak began licking his paws. It made Brian cringe. The licking had to hurt like hell.
He filled in the requisite paperwork, leaving the name field blank and writing STRAY in the owner field. He looked at what he had done, scratched out the mistake—hell, he was tired—and wrote UNKNOWN in the owner field.
“You’re not the owner?” the cat-scrubs girl asked. Her name badge read Michelle.
“He could be a stray,” Brian answered. “His coat is matted and dirty and he doesn’t have a collar. Are you able to treat the animal if no one’s guaranteeing payment?”
“Well,” Michelle drew out the end of the word, “it does present a problem. We don’t have funds available for that, but I’ll let Dr. Magee discuss it with you. She’ll be right in.” Michelle left, and a couple minutes later a tall woman wearing a camo-Snoopy scrub top entered and held out her hand.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Magee.” They shook hands. He liked her firm grip and her soft gray eyes “Hello, little buddy. I hear you’re a hero.” Brian liked the way she spoke to the dog. “Let’s take a look at those paws.” She handled the pup with gentleness and confidence. When her head bent to examine the pipsqueak, her black ponytail swung forward to rest beside the nametag, which read Jennifer Magee, DVM.
She straightened. “Let’s check for a microchip.” She grabbed a handheld scanner from the counter and waved it over the back of pipsqueak’s neck and shoulder area. No beeps or pings. Her mouth flattened and she set the scanner aside. “Without an owner, I’m afraid we’re only able to give basic care, and it’s likely he’d go to the homeless shelter. Is there any possibility you’d be willing to assume responsibility for him?”
Brian rubbed the pup’s ears. The dog gazed up, dark eyes seeming to beg for the help he needed. Emergency care was expensive, but what else could Brian do? The feisty little almost-big-enough-to-be-a-dog had led Brian straight to Ginger, yapping all the way.
“I’ll cover the charges,” Brian told Jennifer. That earned him a beaming smile, and took a good-looking woman from appealing to stunning. Now’s not the time to be thinking about what she looks like beneath those loose scrubs. “I’ll try to find the owner. I can post flyers and place a notice in the paper’s Lost and Found section. Anything else I should try?”
“If you have a phone, take a picture before you leave and post on social media. And you should communicate with animal control and the shelter,” Dr. Jennifer suggested. “Lost dogs can end up there, and owners often check with them when they’re looking for their lost pets.”
“If no one claims him, I’ll find someone to adopt him.” Somehow. He’d put the word out at the station right away.
“Any possibility you could adopt him?” she asked.
“Me?” Brian never considered the possibility.
Dr. Jennifer gave him a half-smile.
“I’m a firefighter, live alone, and work forty-eight-hour shifts.” Of course, Mrs. Delgado had walked Roscoe and cared for him when Brian was on duty, and in return Brian had kept her lawn mowed and weeded. It had been over a year since he’d lost his Rottweiler to old age, and Mrs. Delgado still complained that she missed Roscoe and the twice-a-day exercise.
“We’ll keep him until he’s stable and on the mend,” Dr. Jennifer explained. “Which will probably be a few days. If he doesn’t have a home to go to when he’s discharged, he’ll be sent to the shelter.” She shrugged. “Those are our only options.”
Would the pipsqueak appeal to someone looking to adopt a cute pet? A woman or child, maybe? He was kind of cute in a shaggy way, but under all that fur, there wasn’t much to him. If he wasn’t adopted right away, how long before his paws became infected or he got sick? “I’ll find him a home,” Brian vowed. “I can’t take him. Even if I could, he’s not my kind of dog.”
Dr. Jennifer swept a considering gaze over him. “Hmm. He seems awfully sweet.”
Brian’s ears burned. “I’m an active guy. I’ve always had big dogs. You know, Rottweiler, Lab, German Shepherd.” The little pipsqueak had a big heart, though. Brian would give him that.
The doc straightened. “Well, think about it. I’ll sedate him to clean and dress his burns, and he’ll be medicated for pain regularly. He’ll receive daily dressing changes and antibiotics. If he doesn’t take food, water, and medication by mouth, we’ll start an IV. We’ll take good care of him.”
This was going to cost a fortune. Brian looked at the dog, who laid his head down and sighed. Brian rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He needed to get right on those notices, because he had a feeling the yapper was homeless, and clearly, he couldn’t stay that way.
“Does he need a name?” Brian asked.
“We can put stray on his paperwork and call him Baby or something similar when we talk to him.”
Brian shifted. That didn’t feel right. The little guy should have a name. Rags or Pipsqueak, maybe. Except he should probably leave naming for the new owner.
“Feel free to come by and check on him,” the doc said, gathering up the pup. The dog laid his head across her arm and looked at Brian with sad eyes, which made his heart pinch.
Michelle took his credit card information, and Brian signed the necessary paperwork before he left.
###
Off duty after a forty-eight-hour shift, Brian decided to stop by the veterinary hospital on his way home. It was a small detour, and he wanted to see how the key-chain-size dog was doing. Brian had called the hospital twice and been told the pipsqueak was stable, was being medicated for pain, and had been sleeping a lot. After plunging into the role of stray dog advocate, he’d thought about the scrappy little guy again and again. And every time Brian thought of the pup, images of Dr. Jennifer Magee played behind his eyes. She was a looker—and smart and compassionate. He wasn’t all about looks, but man, she was pretty.
He’d knocked off as many tasks as he could prior to his shift: making, posting, and distributing flyers, blasting social media, calling the shelter and animal control, and placing a notice in the paper.
At the station, his crew insisted on pitching in to help pay the dog’s medica
l bills. One of them called Station number three, the station that responded to the fire, and those firefighters offered to help, too. Best of all, the department’s public information officer had heard about the dog leading Brian to Ginger, thought it would make a good public relations story, and called one of the local news stations.
A film crew and reporter came to the station and interviewed Brian, and the spot aired on the evening and late-night news, and they flashed the pictures Brian had taken on the TV a few times. With all that working for him, either the pom-pom’s lost family or a new family was certain to discover him. Brian was glad of that, even though it made his chest feel kind of empty, which was sort of crazy.
One of the hospital’s technicians led him to an empty exam room and carried the pipsqueak in a moment later, laying the dog on a soft mat on the metal exam table.
“Look at you.” The pup wore a large plastic cone around his neck to prevent his mouth from reaching his bandages. All four paws were enclosed in bulky wraps.
With dark eyes focused on Brian, the dog lifted his ears and gave a squeaky woof. Something about his gaze seemed…reproachful.
The back of Brian’s neck stung like the sunburns he used to get in high school when he played hooky at the lake. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve been working.”
Pipsqueak sighed and laid his head down.
“And I’ve been looking for your owner.” With zilcho results.
Dr. Jennifer appeared in the staff doorway. Today she wore bright green scrubs with paw prints all over them. Brian perked up like the pipsqueak’s ears.
“Good morning,” she said. “I saw you on TV last night, talking about our friend.”
“According to our public information officer, it made a good human interest story. I hoped that if the dog’s owner doesn’t turn up, the spot might encourage someone to adopt him, especially given he’s a hero.”
“Let’s hope so.” She stepped to the counter and rubbed the little guy’s ear. Brian caught a whiff of something floral, perfume or shampoo. It took all of his self-control not to lean in and draw a deep breath of her. “He’s doing well. His IV was discontinued this morning. His pain prevents him standing more than a minute or two, but he’s able to get up to relieve himself. Since he doesn’t have an owner who can facilitate outpatient care or a veterinarian I can transfer care to, we’ll keep him a couple more days. I think he’ll be getting around better by then.”
