Blaze of Chaos

by C. J. Strange

  Kendra collects my empty glass to refill it. She knows the drill by now. “Aquilo’s a nice bloke, keeps to himself. Doesn’t give me the lip I get from some people.”

  “You’re right good at taking it, though.”

  “Ha.” She scowls as she’s topping off my lager, and she brings it back to me.

  “He’s here all the time too,” I add, jerking my head at the bloke sitting directly beside me, also staring at the telly. His presence is something I’ve gotten used to over the past few days, as massive as it is. At over eight feet tall and with skin like granite, this diamond geezer I’ve come to know as Atlas would give Duncan even a run for his money down at the gym. “He’s basically a fucking alcoholic.”

  “Rich coming from you, sonny,” the older Anomaly grumbles at me, and he gives me a slap on the shoulder that sends me careening into the bar top face-first. He and Kendra share a laugh, and I scowl at them as I raise my head.

  “Right, that’s it,” I declare. The point of my good elbow anchors itself with purpose to the counter in front of me, and I hold my hand vertically in the air. “One more time.”

  Atlas shakes his head. “Again? You’re already thirteen-for-none, boy.”

  “So, why you scared then? C’mon. Bring it.”

  Atlas heaves out an enormous sigh and aligns his elbow with my own. The length of his forearm is almost comical, and I snicker at the sight of it towering a good hand or two over my own. Our palms and fingers lock, and I cast a quick glance about to make sure the pub is as empty as it was five seconds ago.

  “All right, lads.” Kendra leans on the bar. “One… two…”

  With a growl of effort, I sling everything I’ve been silently building, smoldering away in my chest, down the length of my arm into his own. Flames erupt from my hand as its temperature raises to incendiary levels. Kendra leaps back away from the bar, but despite my attempt at a distraction, Atlas simply roars with laughter and slams my arm down to the side, hard enough to rattle my entire frame.

  “Son of a—!” I yank my hand into my stomach protectively, glaring up at him. I’ve never known anyone to withstand physical contact with that heat for that long. “You better not have just broke my other arm, or my lieutenant’ll shit a brick!”

  “Lieutenant?” Kendra raises an eyebrow. “You’re some sort of military man now?”

  Fuck. I shrug at the two of them, as casually as I can. “Nah, just what we call the old gal, you know? She takes care of us all in a way, so I guess it’s our brand of affection.”

  “Whatever. No more Magick in the bar, dickhead, or I swear I’ll lock you in the ice machine.”

  “You can torture me all you want, love, you ain’t getting my life story.”

  “It's fine,” she says, in a less playful tone. “I respect everyone's privacy in this place. That’s the one thing we don’t want to take from you.” There’s an openness and an honesty in her eyes when she adds, “Enough people in this god-forsaken country try to take that away from us all.”

  “B9.”

  I don’t see either of their reactions as I sip through the head of my lager, but it takes a few moments of silence for one of them to reply to my sudden admission.

  “Oh my god,” Kendra murmurs softly. “Legit?”

  “Legit. Far as I know.” Even just talking about it causes the pain, which fades a bit more every day, to flare up inside the wounds. Alcohol helps. “They came after me and some mates of mine, we hauled arse out of town same night. Ain’t really too clear on what to do now.”

  Kendra draws herself upright carefully. There’s an expression on her face that I’ve not seen before: she’s in awe.

  “That’s a hell of a story,” she says quietly. “I can see why you weren't knocking down the door to tell it to us.”

  “Can’t be too sure who to trust,” is my honest reply, and she nods in solemn understanding. Of course she fucking gets it, she deals with the general public day after day. Not only are her patrons probably interested in keeping a low profile a lot of the time, I can't imagine she wants too many of her own personal details sent round the bar on a busy Sunday lunchtime.

  “Fucking Bashers,” Atlas grunts beside me, downing the rest of his drink with a sense of finality. “Any of them come sniffing around here looking for you, boy, they’ll meet an end they didn’t see coming.” He pats my shoulder, light enough not to send me flying this time, and stands. “I’m off for a slash. I’ll have another when you’ve got a sec, Kendra.”

  “In a less violent sense, I agree.” Kendra puts both hands on the bar top. “Your secret's safe here, I can assure you that. And you and your friends are welcome here any time. We don't put up with any of that anti-Anomaly bullshit in this establishment, don’t you worry.”

  “That your rep’?”

  “Quiet rep’, I’d say. It's not like you can go putting that stuff on posters, even out here on the Fringe.”

  “But people know?”

  “The right people do,” Kendra says firmly. “We keep it that way.”

  “Never had any trouble with that sign out front?”

  Kendra pauses, pursing her lips before allowing them to spread open in a smirk. “So, you recognized her then? Hidden out there protecting our world?”

  “Nova.” I grin back at her. I want her to know I know more than she thinks I know, or something along those lines. “Solar goddess.”

  “You’re a Novanite?”

  “All Anomalies are Novanites,” I snort, not particularly caring if I come off as pushy. “Even if they don’t have a clue who She is. Just by using your Magick, you’re worshipping Nova. I ain’t going to pretend I’m too fucking cool to admit I know where my gifts come from.”

  “It’s still such a young religion,” says Kendra. She’s playing with a bracelet on her wrist, which I noticed the first time I met her has the holy symbol of Nova etched into some of the beads. “But I know a lot of Anomalies who could benefit from some of the practices. The positivity, the exercises, the higher level of thinking—”

  “Tell that to my mates,” I say before gulping my Carlsberg, and Kendra laughs.

  “All right, so. Tell me about these mates of yours. Any of them fit? They're still coming out this Saturday, right?”

  Well, I think, drinking more to stall for time, that answers that question. Also poses a shit ton more.

  “One,” I eventually answer. “Proper fit. Fucking hilarious, too. And smart, and a complete badass. And, like, seriously the kindest person you’ve ever met in your whole damn life. Shirt off her back kind of gal. But sorry, don't think she's into other birds.”

  The party of old fogies watching cricket in the corner motion to Kendra, and she waves back with a smile and busies herself preparing them another round, along with Atlas’ bourbon. Other than myself, Atlas, and El Creepo, they’re the only people here on this dead weekday afternoon, and they’re far too preoccupied with their match to even notice us.

  “She’s stellar though,” I continue while she works. “My friend? I’ve known her since we were kids, we grew up next door to each other. All super close. My mum helped out when hers died, I think we were about eight or nine?”

  “That can’t have been easy for either of you to deal with,” says Kendra mildly.

  “Not really.” I slurp what’s left of the head off my lager. “Hit her harder obviously, but her mum was like an auntie to me. Then when she was sixteen, her dad disappeared. We reckon the Sovereignty got him.”

  Kendra halts the vodka she's measuring out to look at me. “Goddamn, Diesel,” she breathes, shaking her head. “You poor kids. What about your family?”

  My intestines twist up into knots. This chat is veering off in a direction I'm not entirely comfortable with. “No idea. My dad can suck the fattest knob, and I lost contact with my mum when she divorced him.” I smirk to myself, a bit sadly. I'm not seeking attention, or anything—it’s just honestly not something I can talk about.

  Kendra seems to sense i
t, at least. “Whatever happened in the past, it’s in the past. Makes us what we are, but we only have to focus on it for as long as we want. Sort of like Eastenders. It was an absolute travesty, torture even, for decades—but now here we are, and it’s over, and we’re free.” She winks at me. “Back in a tick.”

  I’ve drained my pint by the time she returns, and she pours a glass of iced water and puts it down in front of me. “Drink,” she says sternly in response to my frown of bewilderment. “You’ve had five of those and no proper fluids. I’m not serving you again until you hydrate.”

  “I’ve had girlfriends like you,” I mutter as I snatch up the glass.

  “Speaking of girlfriends,” purrs Kendra, leaning on the bar top, “when are you going to tell that girl in your brigade how much you’re into her?”

  I fucking hate water—especially cold water—and I fucking hate getting wet. I recoil violently as my startled choke-cough-spit into the glass splatters me in ice water from face-to-waist. My eyes shoot up and glare at her, my brow furrowing deeply.

  “I what!?”

  “Think about what you said,” says Kendra, “and then think about what I said. And when you’re as sharp as that Scottish friend of yours—who, by the way, you haven’t mentioned at all, along with your other guy mate—let me know. I’ll be here.”

  She winks and tosses a bar towel across my face, and by the time I yank it off, she’s sauntered away to serve corner creep another cup of tea.

  15 Penny’s Cognizance

  Four of six days this week, I’ve drifted lazily out of slumber every morning to the adorable sight of Oliver’s pale, placid face—slightly pinched in places, especially when dreaming. He’s a fan of routine, which I’m not opposed to, and so we’ve fallen into our own little schedule of an evening, performing the same tasks in the same order to ease his anxious mind into the mood for sleep. Our night caps off with a final check of all of his scanners, which he then hands over to Duncan. who’s taken over the night shift. Then we'll wander down to the toilets, prep for bed, and wander back together, nattering the entire time. He’ll get another head rub before sleep, as his headaches are worryingly persistent, and we’ll eventually doze off in each other’s arms.

  The mornings are my favorite, though.

  Sun filters in through the partially-drawn curtain at the mouth of the drop-down, warm and soothing and bright. It splashes over the sharp angles of Oliver’s face, throwing shadows across his skin. Dust mites float gracefully in the light before dissolving into the cooler, darker space. Even though that’s a sign I should probably clean the van more often, coupled with the gentle rhythm of my friend’s breathing, it’s oddly peaceful.

  I’ve turned into a morning person in the past few years. But waking up beside Oliver makes them even more delightful.

  I do my best to muffle my moan of pleasure as I stretch every single muscle out from my toes to my fingers, eagerly seeking out those refreshingly cold spaces that lay untouched beneath the quilt. One of my arms curls beneath the pillow under my head, and the other snakes its way around Oliver’s waist. His skin is soft and perfectly smooth, hypnotically so, and I find myself rubbing slow circles over his hip with my thumb.

  I’m not surprised when his eyes open, despite how sudden it is. I’m used to it by now. I greet him with a lazy smile. “Watcha, gorgeous. You know, I never get bored of watching you wake up like a vampire.”

  “Mmph,” mumbles Oliver, though I think he may have been shooting for a word or two. I laugh without restraint. He’s charmingly incoherent first thing in the morning, and it always takes a good hour or two and several cups of tea before he’s himself.

  “I slept well too,” I reply, cuddling closer to his side now there’s no danger of rousing him. “I dreamt you wanted to live in the fridge.”

  “That’s foolhardy, regardless of how hot this van gets at night.” Oliver's lips kink into a dozy smile. “I had another nightmare. But I woke up and you were all spoony, and it’s hard to panic? When you’re all spoony, I mean.”

  I laugh lightly, and his smile widens. Those lips of his have been catching my attention more and more recently—how they purse, how they part, how they mouth the words to music when they think nobody is watching them. Each time, remembering their silky softness against my own, shaky with both nerves and excitement.

  Without consciously choosing to do so, I crane my neck over and capture those lips. To my surprise, he’s ready for me. His slender fingers slide into my hair to keep me in place while he returns the affection, this time with what appears to be a burst of rare confidence.

  When he finally draws back, I smirk at him, impressed. “Somebody woke up on the right side of the van this morning.”

  “Every kiss still feels like our first kiss,” is his coy chuckle of an answer. His bright green eyes are so sharp and distinct in the sunlight, it almost takes my breath away. “Is that a bit naff?”

  “No. I actually think it’s proper romantic.”

  “Good.” Oliver glances down, and I swear, he’s blushing. “I don't exactly want to look like a total pillock in front of the fittest girl I’ve ever snogged.”

  “You snog a lot of fit girls, then?”

  “Eh, my fair share.” Oliver laughs. “But seriously, Penny. I don’t want you to think poorly of me.”

  I blink at him in what could probably be described as sheer bewilderment.

  “Oliver,” I say slowly, as one of his arms curls over the dip of my waist, “why on earth would I ever think poorly of you?”

  My friend’s knowing smirk, faint as it is, is something I wasn't expecting. “Come on, Penny. With how down on yourself you’ve been since the raid, do you really think it’s fair to judge me for the dents in my own self-esteem?”

  “You know I’ve been down on myself?”

  “You need to start leading by example, Captain Starling,” he’s saying, and even as he does, his body is beginning to move up and over my own. “How am I supposed to believe in myself if I can see when someone as strong as you is struggling?"

  I want to argue with him, especially at the title he uses, but he doesn’t make it easy. Oliver, who has always been somewhat reserved around me despite our closeness, is suddenly smooth skin and taut muscles sliding across my own, lengthy fingers tangling in my hair, and a rather blatant bulge at the front of his boxer-briefs. I hadn't noticed it until it nudged against my pubic mound through the cotton of the knickers I wear at night for his comfort more than my own. Now, it’s all I can focus on.

  “It should inspire you to see me struggle,” is my retort, spoken through a sweet smile. Part of me hopes he doesn’t notice the slight tremble to my voice, or the goosebumps alighting their way along the tops of my thighs. A dirtier part of me hopes that he does.

  “It should?”

  “To see someone you consider strong working through the exact same problems as you?” I reach up; I can’t resist. A shroud of silken hair has formed a curtain across his face, hiding it from me, and with a single sweep of my hand, I tuck his fringe back behind his ear, revealing the pale, pixie-like features beneath.

  He’s like a porcelain doll. I want to protect him from ever shattering.

  It's an instinct that’s only intensified as his night terrors have developed. Watching someone you love suffer through intense stress-related migraines and PTSD, and knowing there's only so much you can do to help, is an arduous experience.

  Oliver’s knees are either side of mine, his hands propping him up as far as the drop-down will let him. The roof is low, crushing his body close to mine. Every breath from either of us drags the firm ridge in his shorts over my most sensitive spot, to a point where mine are becoming ragged, and his shallow and sharp.

  Neither one of us wants to admit the position we’ve worked ourselves into. But we both seem to want it to proceed.

  “Everything you do inspires me, Penny,” he whispers, his lips so close to mine I can feel the words on my skin. “I wish you could see you
rself through my eyes—just one glimpse. I’d give anything to give you that.”

  “For a dork, you’re awfully romantic when you want to be,” I chuckle. His smile sets my heart aflame and lifts it higher in my chest than its soared in months, maybe years.

  It wrecks me, in the best way possible, to see him so happy.

  “Only with you,” he confesses. My heart skips a beat or two as he brushes his mouth gingerly across my own, effectively silencing me. “You bring something out of me, something… feral.”

  I can feel his body sinking down over mine, that firm bulge nestling itself perfectly between my folds through two layers of poly-cotton. I gasp. The jigsaw pieces fit perfectly, which forms a new puzzle: what happens if we go with our gut on this one, and it all ends in disaster?

  What happens if it doesn’t?

  “You know,” Oliver is saying as his lean frame, usually hidden away under an oversized knit jumper, lowers an inch further, lying flush with my own. “Just so we’re clear on this, I want you to know I don’t have any problems with the whole you and Duncan thing. Like… no jealousy here, if you know what I mean.”

  “Friends with benefits, mate, that’s all. No jealousy, no strings. It’s easier that way.”

  “Okay, good.” He rolls his hips into mine. “I don’t want to step on anybody's toes.”

  “No toes being squished,” I gasp very quickly, before he gets any other ideas. The solid ridge that’s rubbing leisurely over my clit is sending shockwaves through my system, and I don’t want it to stop. My thighs ache with the need to part, my ankles longing to lock at the base of his spine and trap him against me. Hold him in place. My hips dare to rock once, twice, grinding myself up against him. The soft noise he barely makes is divine.

  “Penny,” he pants, as we each use a single hand to fight with each other’s underwear. His slim fingers locate my clit with a knowledge I wasn't aware he possessed, teasing it with a few gentle circles before wrapping his fist in my knickers and tugging them aside.