Baptism of Fire (Playing With Hellfire Book 1)

by Jessie Thomas

  Moretti grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The revolting smell of hospital antiseptic tormented me while I drifted in and out of consciousness. Everything happened in pieces: the glare of florescent lights overhead, a flash of pain that was gone the next instant, the robotic tones of a stale, late-night newscast interspersed with the constant beep of machines. Faces loomed over me, too much shadow thrown across their features, the rest too bright. Sometimes they were just voices, most of them foreign, a few familiar if I could hold onto them long enough. Few things pierced the darkness and I remembered some of them, like the press of fingers entwined with mine and the rich notes of cologne and someone’s whispered plea in Spanish. The stench of hospital antiseptic was the only constant, like it had plans to asphyxiate me.

  If I’d been fully awake, the odor would’ve triggered an immediate flight response. Instead, it poked at the old memories that were often too broken to put back together. It was enough to conjure up images of a sterile waiting room and endless corridors that were hushed at a certain time of night. It was enough to remember the inane cartoon I’d been half-watching, all of eight years old, tucked into a hard plastic chair with knobby elbows and scabs on my knees. The way the smell of hospital antiseptic had clung to my clothes and saturated my hair for hours afterward when I was sore and spent from all the crying. How the world hadn’t quite righted itself in the last eighteen years.

  A light cut through the darkness, blinding against my closed eyelids, and forced me to open them. All traces of that ethereal glow, so warm and dreamy, had been lost. The cold light thrown from the fluorescents pierced my skull instead, driving an icepick behind my eyes.

  Everything hurt.

  Not an agonizing kind of hurt, at least not at first. Nothing like the fierce bite of being impaled with some charred debris. They’d probably pumped my system full of good drugs, but I still felt like I’d been pile-drived by an eighteen-wheeler. Or maybe the scorched remains of an abandoned house. My muscles ached as if I’d mutated into one giant bruise, and I was sure that I’d been covered in plenty of ugly ones. A dull throb poking at my left side appeared to be the only evidence of that nasty wound.

  The hospital room slowly came into focus from a blurred mess of color. It would’ve been drab, a palette of white and pale gray, if it weren’t for the garden of flower arrangements taking up all the available real estate. In between bouquets of roses and carnations and daisies, cards and handwritten Get Well Soon messages had been left from visitors. My vision was still a bit hazy, making the names and words incoherent.

  “Hey there, ladybug.”

  Aunt Meg swam into focus as she leaned over the side of the bed to kiss my forehead. She lingered a little too long, and I heard the hitch in her breath when she dragged her fingers through my hair. I sunk into the rough, starched sheets. They were cool against my skin, the air icy from the A/C in the room. I shivered, my body remembering how hot I’d been before I’d lost consciousness.

  The weight of her own relief, her worry, made Aunt Meg’s voice crack.

  “I missed you,” she said, swiping at a tear that trailed down her cheek with the edge of her thumb. Her dark blue nail polish had been hopelessly chipped away. I knew she’d been picking at it, a nervous habit. “Your cousins will be happy to see you’re awake. Alexa’s distracting Levi with food, but they should be back soon.” She let out a sigh. “Stupid question: how are you feeling?”

  I should’ve been asking her the same. Her pale complexion had an almost sallow quality to it. The shadows under her bloodshot eyes gave them a haunted emptiness that had been there before, but not for years now. We had the same eyes, the same blue-gray favored by others in the Phoenix family tree. My father had them, too. Aunt Meg was young, sitting comfortably in her early-forties though people often mistook her for my older sister. We didn’t bother to correct them, sometimes. Whatever stress and constant worry I’d made her suffer through since I’d been out had aged her a decade overnight. I felt guilty for sucking the life out of her.

  I realized how uncomfortably close this was for both of us. How history had nearly repeated itself.

  “Like shit,” I whispered through cracked, dry lips.

  The back of my throat had turned prickly and raw from disuse. And I didn’t know what the hell had happened in my mouth, but it tasted like the fire had ravaged it, too. Though the gritty ash that had coated my skin had been wiped away, I still picked up the scent of burning wood from somewhere. A ghost in the room with me.

  “I think you’ve earned the right. You’ve been through enough,” Aunt Meg said. “Let me know if you’re in pain, okay? I’ll get a nurse in here soon, I just thought you might need a minute to yourself.” She carded her fingers through my hair again, despite the embarrassing amount of grease that tangled it into messy knots. “We’ve all been waiting—you scared me for a minute there.”

  “Just a minute?”

  A smile finally pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe more,” she said. “Poor Levi’s an anxious wreck. I can barely get the kid to eat anything. He hasn’t been to school since we got the call, which I g—”

  “Wait, what?” I sat up, my heart hammering away in my chest. Every muscle protested, but I clenched my teeth and ignored the ache. “What day is it? How long was I out?” I stared at my hands, the wires and IVs I’d been hooked up to, wondering if that strange fire would return.

  “I didn’t want to scare you or anything.”

  “How long?” I insisted. Some of the strength had returned to my voice—and some aggression that Aunt Meg didn’t deserve—but talking was like swallowing a handful of rusty nails wrapped in crumpled sandpaper.

  “The fire was a week ago, ladybug.” She couldn’t meet my eyes. She’d gone quiet and decidedly un-Aunt Meg-like.

  A week. A whole damn week I’d been out of it.

  No wonder she had morphed into the walking dead. Anyone else would.

  “All your friends, the crew from the firehouse came by. Patterson brought flowers and a card, if you can believe it. He was…really shaken up by this, Vic.”

  Another tear escaped and she let it fall this time. “Bree Ramos, she’s stopped in every day. She brought us dinner a few nights this past week. We have more food than we know what to do with back at the house. Firefighters we don’t even know sending us things, asking about you. You know how they are.”

  While I continued to lie there against the pillows in stunned silence, appalled that so much time had passed without me, Aunt Meg went to excavate her purse on the chair next to my bed like she was searching for the Library of Alexandria in there. She wanted to say more but I knew she couldn’t bring herself to share it while looking at me. I picked at the laminated hospital bracelet around my wrist, studying the messages left by family and friends. Anything to distract myself. I got the feeling that maybe she was relieved that we shared a familial sense of emotional awkwardness. You’d think by now that the two of us would be used to it instead of using avoidance tactics.

  But no one wanted to deliver shitty news.

  “Anthony’s parents came by the morning after the fire.” Her voice was measured, the type of fragile I used to coax frightened children out of burning rooms and hated once it was turned on me. It wasn’t her fault. “They didn’t know where else to go, and they were worried about you. My cooking’s nowhere near as good as his mother’s, you know, but…I made sure they ate. I picked up his little brother from the airport. Babysat Aidan.”

  She stopped mindlessly digging through the overloaded contents of her purse, her fist closing around a couple of tissues. “She was here, too—Ally. She sat by your bed, brought you a picture she found from the two of you at graduation. The one where you’re both giving the middle finger.”

  We’d taken a lot of pictures that day. The regularity of fire-related incidents in Perdition Falls led to high recruitment numbers and large class sizes. Standing under a midday sun in our dress uniforms, delirious
from roasting in the heat and sitting through the decorum of a long ceremony, had created all the right conditions for dorkiness once we got bored with formal, stoic poses.

  I found myself relieved when Aunt Meg didn’t try to rifle through the mountain of cards and flowers for the picture. I didn’t want to see it.

  “And the funeral?” I forced the words out somewhere above a whisper. The icepick behind my eyes twisted, skewering further into my brain.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  A wave of nausea hit, threatening my empty stomach. I buried my face in my palm until it passed, then drew my fingers up into my hair. If I closed my eyes I could still see Moretti’s ashes floating in the light of the fire. I could still feel them sticking to my skin. There wouldn’t have been anything to bury but a uniform.

  Tears pickled at the corners of my eyes, but all I felt was the same anger that burned through me once I lost him. It simmered now; I didn’t have enough energy for much else. “I should’ve been there.”

  “You would’ve done all that you could to be there, everyone knows that.”

  That doesn’t make it hurt any less. I could lay here and torture myself with every possible what if scenario—and I probably would, later—even though they’d all end the same way. What more could I have done?

  My fingers still buried in my hair, I propped my elbow up on the pillows. “When can I get out of here?”

  “That’s not up to me, so I couldn’t tell you,” Aunt Meg said. “They’ll probably keep you another day or two at least.”

  I groaned.

  “You were in rough shape when you got here, Vic.” She finally looked in my general direction, tucking a strand of wavy chestnut hair behind one ear. “I’m sure you don’t need reminding. It was…I mean, you’re lucky to be alive. The doctor said you’d been impaled, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing.” Aunt Meg shook her head. “You’re recovering, that’s all that matters.”

  Whatever had pierced me through the side had burnt up from the fire inside me. Maybe they thought I’d made the mistake of pulling it out myself, which I wouldn’t have done even if I’d been desperate. No, Aunt Meg was freaked because the wound would’ve cauterized itself. A doctor would notice that.

  Part of me waited for her to admit that something about this fire—about me—wasn’t right just so that I’d stop thinking I had hallucinated the whole thing. Ramos, Patterson, everyone who’d been on the scene that night would’ve noticed an almost fully-involved house fire go out and flames that burned blue. It would literally be impossible not to. How would I explain that to the department and whoever was in charge of the investigation?

  “I’ll flag down your nurse and call Alexa and Levi. I have a feeling they skipped out on the cafeteria food and went someplace else,” Aunt Meg said. “We’ll see when we can break you out of here. I cleared the junk from your room at the house, so we’ve got it all ready for you to stay with us.”

  “You know I appreciate it, Aunt Meg, but I don’t need to stay at the house,” I told her. “I’m okay at my place.”

  Aunt Meg weaponized the pointed look she threw me from across the room. “If you think I’m letting you go unsupervised after spending a week unconscious, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Nice try, Victoria.”

  The full name usage told me she was absolutely serious. I had to compromise or accept my fate and give in.

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Not gonna cut it,” Aunt Meg said. “Seventy-two is my final offer.”

  I really had no other choice but to admit defeat.

  4

  Three days later, I staggered out of my aunt’s car and filled my lungs with fresh air for the first time in over a week. After freezing in the hospital A/C, the heat and humidity was a shock to my lethargic system. Still, it was a lot fresher than the stink of hot garbage and body odor that wafted through Perdition Falls’ city streets at the height of tourist season. Living in the city meant getting used to the stink—we had to get our scathing residential humor from somewhere other than the potholes and the climate—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t daydream about the air quality out in the suburbs.

  The scent of flowers from the hanging baskets on the porch laced the breeze that ruffled my hair as I stood in the concrete driveway. It took a lot of effort for things to thrive and stay green here—flowers wilted on the regular and grass became a chore faster than most could keep up. Trees were few and far between in the city where I lived, and green space was an inconvenience begrudgingly maintained by the Department of Public Works mostly for tourist appeal. And dogs.

  That meant our suburbs looked like something you’d find out West. There were no lush, verdant lawns to speak of or gardens overgrown with colorful flora. Our old Victorian, like the others that lined this street and the neighborhoods around it, sat nestled in a bed of gravel and polished stone. The hard-packed soil underneath was dry from the pervasive heat despite the frequent rainstorms we got, and so people chose to cultivate cacti and succulents to add some greenery. But even Perdition Falls’ cursed earth could make them die.

  It must be all that brimstone.

  Rays of golden evening sunlight fell across the roof, a majestic turret rising to meet the washed out pink sky-orange sky. A wide, cream-colored porch wrapped around the exterior, but the rest of our painted lady was done up in violet and trimmed with canary yellow and turquoise accents. Our lawns might not have been anything noteworthy, but tourists bought postcards of historic homes by the hundreds in those tacky souvenir shops every single year.

  Aunt Meg lingered on the other side of the car, keys dangling off her middle finger while Levi tried to negotiate sleepover plans elsewhere. Lanky, awkward, and all of thirteen years old, Levi had a personality to match his mother’s, which was both an advantage for her and a detriment to their short-lived arguments.

  “Your cousin just got home,” Aunt Meg was saying. “And I’m not going out again.”

  “He doesn’t have to stay because I’m here,” I said. That tore Levi’s attention away from his phone, his eyes alight with the possibility of escape. I knew the internal desperation of that please get me the hell out of here look all too well. “I’ll take him.”

  “I hope you’re not serious.” She flipped the set of keys into her palm like she was afraid I’d steal them from her.

  “Only a little.”

  “You can barely stand up straight,” Aunt Meg said. “We don’t need you getting into a car wreck, too. No offense.”

  Levi groaned, ducking away from his mother’s hand when she ruffled his unruly chestnut curls. Aunt Meg had reached a state of constant denial over being a mother to two teenagers and wanted to keep babying Levi. But Levi had finally hit the age where he’d become deathly allergic to any form of maternal affection.

  “If you can’t bum a ride from one of your delinquent friends’ parents, go ask your sister,” Aunt Meg suggested.

  “Nope,” Alexa shouted from the front porch where she’d already unlocked the door with her own set of house keys.

  “Ugh, come on,” Levi protested. He stomped up the steps after her, taking two at a time and stumbling over his gangly legs. Their voices floated out of the entryway. “It’ll take five minutes!”

  “Then you can walk,” Alexa countered.

  Aunt Meg crossed her arms and sighed. I heard Levi complaining about heat stroke before the sound of their argument tapered off into the house. “I’ll make sure they don’t bother you—they’ve been known to cause headaches,” she promised.

  “You say this as if I haven’t babysat them.”

  I hadn’t been their babysitter since Alexa turned fifteen two years ago, but I’d grown up in this house. The three of us were more like siblings than cousins despite the age gap. The hallways weren’t safe from all the mischief we’d caused, the things we’d broken. I’d once been the
source of Aunt Meg’s stress, her headaches.

  I was sure I hadn’t stopped.

  “Yeah, well, the last thing you need right now is to listen to mindless bickering.” She paused halfway up the front stairs and turned around again. “You hungry? There’s a ton of stuff in the fridge but if nothing looks good to you, we can grab a pizza and wings. Or Chinese takeout. Or tacos. You’ve got to be sick of hospital food.”

  Her words came out in a rush, the chipper tone overcompensating for the storm clouds hanging over my head. I winced. Aunt Meg’s attempt at normalcy sounded a little forced. I knew she was trying, but I wasn’t ready for normal yet. Even the halfhearted sarcasm I’d fallen back into made me feel guilty.

  “I’m not that hungry.”

  “You really should eat something, Vic.”

  “I know that.”

  How could I when my guts were tied up in a knot and the nausea attacked at random? When everything else felt hollow? I’d barely kept down the tasteless food they’d offered me at the hospital.

  “Maybe later,” I compromised. “I just want to take a shower and sleep.”

  “All right. Fine, I won’t push it.”

  Aunt Meg hovered nearby while I followed her up the stairs, moving at a snail’s pace, slightly hunched over from the pain tugging at my side. It wasn’t as bad as the night I’d been injured, but every movement seemed to wrench at the healing wound. Aunt Meg heard my sharp inhale and caught my arm when I reached the top of the stairs. She didn’t let go of me until we were inside the entryway, and even then she seemed hesitant to leave me to my own devices.

  “It’s too quiet in here,” she said. “I’m going to make sure they haven’t killed each other. You get settled and I’ll check on you later, okay?” Aunt Meg left a quick kiss on my temple, then headed toward the back of the house at a brisk pace.

  There was a lot of house for just three people, so Aunt Meg didn’t mind my visits, and I suspected that was probably why she wanted to hold me hostage. She’d never sell it; there was too much family history attached to it. So, she’d made it her own instead. Aside from the polished hardwood floors, some antique furnishings, the glossy nineteenth century woodwork and original stained glass, Aunt Meg brought her personality into the house. From what I could remember, she’d spent the summer after gaining sole custody of me repainting the rooms. I realized it’d been her way of burning through her stress and grief years later.