by A. L. Knorr
We got up and began to head back towards home.
Jack peered over at me. “They did. Looks like we have to say goodbye again.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I guess we do.” I threw an arm over my brother’s neck and kissed his forehead. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore.”
When I released him, he rubbed his temple, looking pink and embarrassed. “Do that again and I will be.”
“Oh, whatever,” I said and shoved him sideways into a bush.
That evening, Jack was sitting in the overstuffed armchair and I was curled up on the couch in our basement rec room listening to the popcorn maker going off in the kitchen above us. It was our family movie night, a tradition we’d had for as long as I could remember. Through the small windows in the top half of our basement, rain pelted the glass and the wind whipped the leaves of the trees.
"I've been thinking, maybe I should come with you to England," Jack said, tossing the remote up in the air and catching it.
"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
"Well, I'm probably a supernatural, too. Maybe I should be getting trained also."
"You're not a fire elemental." I smiled.
"No, I'm not as cool as you, but I think I could have my uses," he said dropping the remote and steepling his fingers. He smiled like an evil villain.
"Like what?"
"I could be your sidekick. I can tell you how the other kids in your class feel about you. I can tell you who you shouldn't trust."
"Hmm." I put on a thoughtful face. "On second thought, that could be very handy. I think you should come, too. I'll call Basil in the morning and ask him if he's got a room you can have."
Jack smiled. Slowly it faded.
"What?"
"You'll be gone soon," he said. "You won't be here at all this school year."
"I'll come home for visits."
He glanced at the stairs to where my parents’ voices were drifting down from the kitchen. "Yeah, but as soon as you get a taste of freedom, I just think you won't have a reason to come home. Not for good. Why would you? Of all the places in the world you could be, why would you come back to Saltford?"
I blinked at this calculating suggestion and realized that he wasn't wrong. I had to reassess what I wanted for my future. It wasn't like I'd had a good grasp of what I wanted to be before I'd been given the fire, and now I had to evaluate it from an entirely different vantage point.
"Well," I began, "it's not like you'll be here for much longer, either. Another three years and you'll be facing Uni, or college, or whatever you decide."
He frowned. "I don't like change."
I looked at my little brother. He'd changed so much in the last few years, it was difficult to imagine him hating it. A wave of nostalgia swept over me and I realized that he was probably right. My days under my parents’ roof were limited, and like most teenagers, I couldn't wait to spread my wings. But there was also something to be said for just being in the moment. Jack had always been good at that.
He interrupted my thoughts with a change of topic. "When is your sleepover?"
"Tomorrow night," I replied. My stomach gave an excited flutter at the thought of it. I couldn’t wait to get together with my friends and hear all about their summer adventures.
As we heard Mom and Dad's footsteps coming down the stairs, Jack got off the chair and came to sit beside me on the couch. I raised my eye brows at him. "I thought I was too hot and too loud for you to sit beside?"
He gave me a sheepish grin. "The sound is kind of like white noise now, or a fireplace." He shrugged. "I don't mind it."
Mom plopped down beside Jack with the overflowing popcorn bowl and Dad sat down beside me.
"RJ!" Dad called over his shoulder.
"Coming!" He emerged from his room and plopped down in the chair Jack had just vacated.
"And the heat?" I asked Jack, popping a few kernels of corn into my mouth.
"It's cold in the basement," he said with a grin.
"Oh, I see how it is," I said, laughing. I poked him in the side. "You're just going to use me as your own personal space heater."
Jack pulled the bowl of popcorn onto his lap and shoved a handful into his mouth. "Pretty much." He crunched the kernels and said through his full mouth, "Are you going to tell your friends about your new superpower?"
I frowned and stopped chewing. He'd just nailed the one question I had been avoiding answering for myself.
"Of course she's not," said Mom, as though he'd asked if I was planning to shave my head. She picked up the remote control.
"You guys going to share the popcorn or what?" asked RJ. "Growing man starving to death over here.”
Mom handed him the bowl and pressed play. As the cheesy music began and the movie credits rolled, my dad said, "I've think I've seen this. It looks old." He took a bite of popcorn. "What are we watching?"
"Firestarter," said Jack with a chipmunk-cheeked grin at me in the glow of our TV screen.
I rolled my eyes and bounced a popcorn kernel off his forehead. "Never putting you in charge of movie night again."
<<<<>>>>
Heat
A Fire Novella
Before Ryan and Gage, there was Chad and Angelica…
Before Arcturus, there was the seed of an idea…
Chapter 1
November, 1990. Sedgley, England.
Templeton's pub would be heaving soon. It was nearly eleven pm. Chad looked over his shoulder from his post by the open door. Already the floor had multiple wet patches from spilled drinks, and a spray of broken glass, which Archie wouldn't bother to clean until morning. There was no point. The eighties metal-playing jukebox attracted toque-wearing black-leather clad customers like flies. Motorcycles clustered on the curb outside the doors.
"Close the door for now, Chad," Archie called as he sent a pint of lager sailing down the bar toward a patron. "It's brass monkeys tonight."
Chad shrugged and closed the door behind him. It smelled better outside anyway. Cold had never bothered him. How could it, when he had a fire constantly burning in the pit of his stomach? Literally. You're a fire mage, Wendig, he thought. Surely your talents are worth more than a hundred quid a week? Surely you can find something better than bouncing? Chad watched his breath fog in the air and turned the steam into smoke just for the fun of it. The little opaque cloud drifted away and slowly evaporated.
A figure materialized at the end of the street. Delicate footsteps drew Chad's attention. A tall, slender shape stepped into the circle of light under a streetlamp. Young, female, and alone. Tight-fitting denim, tall tan leather boots and matching leather jacket and bag. A white scarf was snugged up to her nose and a matching thick-knit toque with a ball dangling from the end bobbed as she walked. A blond curl blew back from her cheekbone. She defined 'legs for days.'
Chad tucked his hands into his jean pockets and watched her approach through half-closed eyes. Was she actually intending to enter Templeton's? Chad raised his eyebrows. Templeton's hadn't hosted a patron like her in...well, ever. It was a watering hole for the sludge of Sedgley.
She reached the door next to Chad and put her hand out for the door handle. She didn’t look a day over eighteen.
Chad fought the urge to direct her to The Bat & Ball two blocks over. She wouldn't find any trouble in a theme pub frequented by retired cricket players. But Archie would kill him if he turned a patron away, especially a pretty one.
"ID, miss," he said.
"Oh, aren't you sweet," she said in a North American accent. She pulled off her white mittens, shot him a dizzying grin, and rummaged in her tan leather bag. She produced a wallet and then a driver's license.
He held the ID up under the single bulb hanging on a wire over the door. Angelica Butterfield. Twenty-two. A Canadian address.
"You're a long way from home, Angelica," Chad said, handing the ID back and swinging the door open for her with one arm. Why any tourist would ever visit the hamlet of Sedgley when London was less than an h
our away was beyond him.
"Yes. In town on business," she said, dropping her wallet into her bag. "Brrrr, chilly tonight, isn't it?"
Angelica sailed past him, leaving behind a vanilla-scented cloud. Chad watched as she doffed the toque and approached the bar. A cascade of blond curls tumbled down over her shoulders. Every scarred face in the place turned.
Templeton's was poorly lit, and every one of the dozen customers were men in black leather. They looked more like wraiths than people: hollow-eyed, used up, worn-down. Against the dark wood paneling, cracked floor tiles, and chrome-rimmed bar stools, Angelica stood out like a lighthouse on a stormy night.
Archie threw his bar towel over his shoulder, placed his hands flat on the top of the bar, and leaned forward to listen to her order. Chad strained his ears but couldn't make out their words. Archie gestured towards the rear wall of the pub. Angelica moved away from the bar and Archie's eyes swept her from head to toe. He tugged on his beard, flipped a half-pint glass in one meaty hand, and placed it under a tap.
Oblivious to the stares, Angelica moved past the pool tables to take in Archie's prized possession: A 1929 Military Scout motorcycle. Poised beneath the neon glow of beer signs, the Scout was cast in a mythic green glow.
Archie followed her with a half-pint. Chad's mouth twitched. Archie never delivered drinks to anybody. To Chad's surprise, Archie and Angelica stood and talked animatedly for more than a few minutes. Angelica gestured to several of the bike's parts and Archie nodded enthusiastically. Archie squatted to point at the main stand. Angelica crouched along with him and the two of them looked like a couple of frogs on lily pads.
When they finally stood and Archie turned away, he had a look of amazement on his face. He shook his head as he made his way back to the bar.
Chad closed the door before Archie had a chance to yell at him, and nearly bumped into Mickey Pickett. Mickey was a regular who took up more room than three regulars. He was Sedgley's only claim to fame - a champion bare-knuckle heavy-weight boxer, well known in the underground.
"Wendig," Mickey nodded his massive head at the bouncer.
"Pickett," Chad returned. He held the door open and sucked in his stomach so the giant could pass.
A dozen more patrons arrived over the next twenty minutes and the small bar became hazy with smoke and loud with talk. The temperature rose. Chad propped the door open. From his post, he watched Angelica out of the corner of an eye. So far she'd struck up six different conversations and had shaken multiple hands. If he wasn't mistaken, she'd also handed out a couple of business cards. She sent a couple of smiles Chad's way, but her gaze never lingered. What did a lady like her want in a place like Templeton's?
Shortly past midnight, the sound of breaking glass jerked Chad's attention away from Angelica.
"You gonna pay for that?" Mickey's voice carried over the din.
"Come on, Pickett. It was an accident," wheedled a voice from someone Chad couldn't see behind the giant. "I got laid off this week."
"What're you doing here then? You'll pay for my next drink, and then you'll go home where you belong."
"A man's got a right to..."
"Don't push me, Sykes." Mickey reached out a meaty hand and dropped it on the little man's greasy forehead. He pushed enough to make the short guy stagger back into a circle of other patrons.
Beer splashed on the floor, shortly followed by cries of anger. Shoving commenced.
Archie looked for Chad over the crowd and summoned him with a jerk of his chin. Chad elbowed his way through the crowd as more bodies crashed into one another.
"Hey now, Mick. Not in my bar..." Archie's voice rose sharp and blunt over a Whitesnake song blaring from the jukebox.
A sharp elbow caught Chad in the cheek as he pushed through the stinking crush. A circle had formed, and a little too eagerly, Chad noted. Mickey and the little man who looked more weasel than human faced off.
The fire crackled in Chad's belly, ready to be called on. It hurt, like always, and Chad tried not to wince outwardly. He put a hand on Mickey's elbow, hoping to coax him down with talk. That's when he saw the blade in Sykes’s hand.
"Even a meathead boxer like you can't win against a blade," Sykes hissed as he snapped open the butterfly knife.
Mickey laughed and pulled out his own long, two-edged blade from somewhere near the vicinity of his hip, holding it low and hard. It gleamed in the light.
"No knives! No! Knives! Chad?" Archie waved his arms and the crowd shoved back, out of reach of the blades. Chad got pushed back along with the crowd.
"Coming through," Chad bellowed, and the men nearest to him parted.
"Easy, Sykes,” Mickey said. “You really want to dance with me?"
"You've always acted like you own the place," seethed Sykes.
The crowd inhaled, so did Chad. Mickey raised the blade, a good twelve inches. Even at a distance, Chad could see the distinct pattern on the steel. It reminded him of flowing water, which reminded him he needed a drink.
"That's a Damascus blade," cried a woman's voice.
The sound was so jarring against the backdrop of men’s voices that everyone froze.
Chad tracked a head of blond hair as Angelica wound her way through the crowd. She ducked under raised arms and curled around pot bellies. She entered the circle, as if oblivious to the danger. She peered up at Mickey, her face alight with wonder. She looked at the blade deliberately and pointed to it. "That's Damascus steel!"
Mickey looked down at her, his jaw agape. "Damascus..." he trailed off.
"Where did you get that? May I see it? Sorry to interrupt," she threw the words over her shoulder at Sykes, who's jaw hung stupidly. He put his palms up, butterfly knife held light and loose. The tension in the room eased.
"Nothing to see here," Chad said as he passed through the crowd, patting a few backs. "Relax, guys. Break it up. Jake," he called to the smaller man.
Jake Sykes shuffled toward Chad, his narrow eyes darting toward Mickey and Angelica.
"Get out of here," Chad continued. "You know we don't do weapons. Next time I search you."
Jake sputtered, "Mickey's got a bloody machete!"
"I know, I'll deal with him next. Get." Chad jerked his chin toward the door and Sykes hunched his shoulders and took his leave.
Chad approached Mickey who was now wrapped up in conversation with Angelica.
"...is a lost art," Angelica was saying. "You see this beautiful design?" She hefted the blade in her hands and pointed her pinky finger at the sweeping lines through the metal. "It's called pattern welding and happens in the smelting process."
Chad was shocked Mickey let anyone touch the blade, but as he took in the look of abject admiration and excitement on Angelica's face, he wouldn't have been able to say no to her passion, either.
"'Scuse me," Chad interrupted. "No weapons in Templeton's. Take it outside."
"This isn't a weapon," Angelica said to Chad, her enthusiasm quickening his pulse. "Well, it is. But it's art first. I'd like to buy it from this fine gentleman. He promises he won't wield it against anyone during our transaction, don't you Mr....?”
"Pickett," said Mickey. "But it's not for sale. It was my granddad's blade."
"Which is why I'll pay you handsomely for it," Angelica said, opening her purse. She opened the wallet, exposing a thick wad of cash. "How's six hundred pounds?"
Chad cursed under his breath and moved his bulk to block the view of her money from curious glances. "We're a bar, not a pawn shop."
Mickey stared at the cash, his bottom lip hanging open. He gathered himself, his eyes never leaving the money. "Eight hundred pounds."
Chad almost laughed. So much for hanging onto his granddad's prized possession.
"Seven, and not a penny more," said Angelica, snapping her fingers. She was enjoying this. "In cash. Today. Right now. You won't get a better offer than that, Mr. Pickett."
"It's yours," said Mickey. His tongue snaked out and wet his lips.
&
nbsp; Angelica handed the cash to Mickey and took the blade gingerly. "Did it come with a sheath? Oh, please say yes!" Her eyes reminded Chad of a puppy. Adorable. Sweet. Did she know how irresistible she was? Probably.
Mickey whipped out his wallet and shoved the money out of view. He shook his head. "I lost it. ’Scuse me. Nice doing business with you." Mickey moved faster than any man that large had a right to. The door slammed behind him.
More than one pair of eyes had witnessed the transaction. Angelica inspected knife, seemingly unaware of the attention she'd drawn.
"Miss?" Chad said. She had plenty of cash left, he'd seen the wad with his own eyes, and he wasn't the only one.
"Hmmm?" She made a distracted noise.
"I'm not sure what you were thinking coming to a place like this..." He had her attention now. Her big blue eyes blinked up to his face. "...And flashing money around. But I advise you to head home, or to wherever you're staying. And quickly."
"Oh." She held the knife against her heart, as though the contents of her purse were an afterthought by comparison. "Right you are, Mr..."
"Wendig." He held an arm toward the door, inviting her to take her leave.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Angelica Butterfield.” She took off her scarf and wrapped the blade carefully, then tucked it into her purse. "Good night, Mr. Wendig." She pulled her white toque over her curls and donned her mittens. "Oh." She put a pound coin on the bar to cover her drink. "You're sure you won't sell the Scout?" she asked Archie.
"I'm sure. Can't blame you for trying, though," Archie said, taking the money off the bar. "Lady knows her stuff," he said to Chad.
Chad was less concerned with her knowledge and more worried about her making it home in one piece. "Need a cab?" He didn't like the look of the two characters in the booth nearest the door. They watched Angelica pass, looking like a couple of wax figures. Only their eyeballs moved.
"Oh, thanks. But I'm staying at the King's Arms. I can walk. Goodnight, Mr. Wendig."
