Baptism of Fire (Playing With Hellfire Book 1)

by Jessie Thomas

  The terms we’d agreed on said I had to stay for three days. She never mentioned a thing about not leaving the house.

  She probably should have. Not her smartest move.

  I couldn’t ignore the twinge in my side today. The effects of the hot water were beginning to wear off and I needed, as Ramos had succinctly put it, “something stronger.” Shaking a dose of ibuprofen into my palm from the stash of pain meds in the downstairs bathroom, I went straight for the dining room that was reserved for special occasions. This seemed like a dire one. A modern liquor cabinet took up wall space near the antique buffet table, the glass and stained black wood housing a variety of bottles, some more frequented than others. The vodka was almost gone. There was less wine than usual, which told me Aunt Meg had been self-medicating while I’d been in the hospital.

  I palmed a bottle of gently used whiskey and grabbed a crystal glass from the bar, letting it dangle from my fingers. It was the expensive stuff, the kind Aunt Meg liked to show off rather than open. She’d kill me if she saw me right now.

  Fuck it. I swallowed the painkillers and chased them with a shot of whiskey. Then another. A pleasant burn all the way down, it reminded me of sparks in hollow eyes and embers beneath my skin and a glowing, white-hot fire hiding deep inside my ribcage. Which wasn’t as pleasant as the whiskey.

  Not my smartest move, either, but we all had our moments.

  The bus reeked of exhaust, stale fast food, and sunscreen—the usual aromatic assault of crowded public transport. I clung to a metal overhead bar, hoping the painkillers and whiskey would kick in sooner rather than later because the potholes were a slow, cruel torture. I stood cramped between a few regular commuter types—businesspeople in stylish suits or groggy, hungover college students—and a group of tourists from somewhere north of the border, judging from their accents and scraps of French. Canada was only a quick drive over the bridge from Perdition Falls so they were our most frequent guests.

  Grousing about the flood of tourists had been a regional pastime here for generations, but with the sheer amount of money they injected into the local economy, we coexisted with them. And showed them some Western New York hospitality now and then. They started to arrive in droves around this time of year when spring waned into summer, though we were an all-year-round kind of destination. Our weird little city naturally attracted a wide array of people, from your average college students looking to indulge in the nightlife to families who flew across the globe just to get a taste of whatever vaguely hellish vibe Perdition Falls gave off. Occultists and paranormal frauds who called themselves “experts” helped peddle the local folklore and urban legends to the rest of the world.

  I’d seen it all.

  Nothing about city bus life could surprise me anymore. The apathy came with years of enduring public transport. Owning a car in the city proper was a waste of resources, and Perdition Falls had no subway system to speak of. They’d tried over the centuries. There were condemned tunnels dating back to the Victorian era. But the unnatural heat this place radiated did not mix well with any kind of elaborate underground construction, let alone a working subterranean transport system. We had plaques downtown memorializing the lives lost from the rising temperatures and the collapses in a pursuit that had been ultimately useless. A short-lived attempt at a streetcar system ended with melted tracks and irate commuters.

  A few excited gasps broke through the sound of fifty or so people ignoring each other and desperately avoiding eye contact. The cluster of tourists nudged closer to the window when a couple offered to change spots with them. They scrambled to capture the extravagant Gothic-style bronze and onyx signage that welcomed everyone to downtown Perdition Falls.

  WELCOME TO PERDITION FALLS, NEW YORK

  THE HOTSPOT OF THE NORTHEAST

  EST. 1815

  I didn’t want to know how much that sign cost when our overworked, underpaid fire department had to beg the city for new equipment. The same city that didn’t seem to give a shit about its arson problem. There certainly wouldn’t be a tourist economy left if the whole damn thing burned to the ground again.

  The bus continued on its route without me, brakes squealing when a car cut in front as it tried to merge with traffic. A cacophony of horns ricocheted off the buildings in the aftermath, heads turning to seek out the piercing noise. I smirked despite the acrid cloud of exhaust that exploded behind the bus. I complained as much as anyone about living here, but it felt good to be downtown. Home sweet home. The bus had dropped me off a few blocks away from where I needed to be, so I joined the current of people on their lunch break, a familiar rhythm.

  Corporate skyscrapers and municipal buildings rose to meet the thin layer of fog that hadn’t scattered yet, giving Perdition Falls its majestic skyline. Newer buildings, all glass and steel and modern architecture, stood guard alongside historic Art Deco landmarks. Aside from city hall, the crown jewel of the skyline loomed above all others, nestled in the heart of the business district. The building once had an official name, but now it was known as The Devil’s Spire to both locals and tourists.

  Visible from everywhere in the city, the Art Deco gem was impossible to miss—the exterior cut into the midday sky like an ink stain, a smudge of pitch black charcoal. Ornate gold accents atop its peaks and around the uppermost windows gleamed in the sun breaking through the fog. Its imposing, Gothic perch over Perdition Falls inspired a lot of the merchandise in our collection of tacky corner souvenir shops. Not to mention the thousands of photographs, drawings, and paintings from visitors who traveled to recreate its ominous beauty. The rare patch of greenspace around the building was home to a copse of well-kept trees and other lush flora, including its gorgeous cherry blossoms. Wading through the tourists there was a regular nightmare so I typically avoided it.

  The stench of hot asphalt wafted in with the midday heat. Somewhere close by, a disgruntled construction crew filled in potholes. I squeezed past a line of people waiting in front of a food truck to reach a manicured walkway. Dark red SUVs, police squad cars, and other official emergency personnel vehicles took up most of the spaces in the adjoining parking lot. The brushed nickel lettering on the outside of the building shimmered against its rather unremarkable combination of red brick and haggard concrete.

  I walked into Perdition Falls Fire Department Headquarters feeling out of place in my plain clothes. Instead of blending in with the sea of navy and white and gray uniforms, I was an outsider, the subject of curious gazes. Alexa had said the fire had been all over the news for days. No doubt my name and face had made the rounds. Were those stares out of disbelief or pity? Sympathy or quiet horror?

  With my cousin’s help, I’d tracked down the lead investigator in charge of the case. After a cursory glimpse of the building’s administrative directory, I took the elevator up a couple floors to the offices of fire investigation only to find the man’s door locked, the room dark. A secretary informed me—assessing me with a doe-eyed, sympathetic look—that Captain Kowalski was at lunch and would be back soon. I eased myself into a bench outside his office, thankful the pain had subsided.

  Headquarters had the appearance of most municipal buildings; corridors with institutional décor, sanitized and vaguely patriotic. Uniform, like the people who roamed the halls. A stale coffee smell clung to the air circulating from the central A/C. I studied the dirty linoleum floor until my vision went out of focus.

  When I heard him coming down the hall—I recognized his voice from the press conference clips—I leapt to my feet as carefully as I could. Captain Richard Kowalski looked exactly how you’d expect someone who’d held an administrative position for over twenty-five years to look. A no-nonsense type, kind of soulless, with stern features and a shock of white hair styled in a military cut. He wore a white polo shirt, the Perdition Falls Fire Department logo embroidered in bright red on the upper left side of his chest.

  I prayed they didn’t stick me in a desk job.

  He balanced a stack of paperwor
k and a steaming ceramic PFFD mug in one hand while drawing a set of keys from his pocket.

  “Captain Kowalski, sir,” I called as he worked the lock. He paused, considering me over the wire frame of his glasses. “I’m Victoria Ph—”

  “Miss Phoenix,” he finished, elbowing open the office door. “I didn’t think you’d be up and about this soon.” He flipped a switch on the wall to our left, illuminating the small, drab office in artificial white light. “It’s good to see your recovery’s going well.”

  He rounded the desk, likely so that he had a barrier between himself and me. He tossed his keys and the manila folder of paperwork onto the cluttered surface. “So, uh,” Kowalski took a hesitant sip of coffee from his stained mug, “what can I help you with?”

  Oh, damn, I don’t know. You work in fire investigation, I just survived a fatal blaze. There’s no connection there at all.

  “I’m not here for small talk, Captain,” I began. He set down his mug and started shuffling around the wayward papers to evade eye contact. Typical. “Why did you close the investigation of the Allen Street fire?”

  Kowalski heaved a sigh but didn’t look up at me. “There was no evidence of foul play,” he said. “No sign of arson—we had the K-9 in there and…nothing.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It was an open and shut case around here, all things considered. Sometimes with these old abandoned houses, they just burn down.”

  “A firefighter was killed.”

  “I know that, and given the sensitive situation, I can promise you that we did our job thoroughly. But we found nothing. Nothing suspicious, no traces of an accelerant. It was ruled an accident, Miss Phoenix. And a very unfortunate one at that. Anthony Moretti was a great firefighter.”

  Hearing him say Moretti’s name in that patronizing tone made the anger flare in my veins again. He had the audacity to use his trademarked public speaking voice on me.

  “Bullshit,” I snapped. “Why wasn’t I part of this? Not once did I have any of you question me about what happened that night. No one on your team came to see me. You call that thorough? I never even gave my statement.”

  “You weren’t conscious to give a statement,” Kowalski argued.

  “You could’ve waited instead of closing this case after two days.”

  “We didn’t want to cause you unnecessary distress while you were recovering,” he explained, taking another sip of coffee like everything was all right and my world wasn’t caving in on me by the minute. “There wasn’t a reason to.”

  I wanted to flip over his desk for taking that tone with me. Like I was a delicate piece of fine porcelain, not an experienced firefighter who’d survived wearing their best friend’s ashes.

  “I’m your fucking eyewitness,” I yelled. “I saw everything. While we did our primary search, we found someone with us in the attic of that house where the fire started, and they escaped. I don’t know how, but I know what I saw. I watched Anthony Moretti die in front me, and I’m telling you, he was murdered. You owe it to his family to look harder.”

  “We don’t have anyone to corroborate your story, Miss Phoenix.”

  Are you kidding me?

  “Because he’s dead,” I countered. “And the same person who set that house on fire killed him. You have to reopen the investigation.”

  “With what evidence?” Kowalski asked. “Look, I understand—”

  “You don’t understand shit,” I shot back. “I watched someone set Moretti on fire in front of me.”

  “I understand you’re upset, and that can sometimes tamper with your—”

  “Oh no, I’ve moved past upset,” I interrupted. “I’m pissed the fuck off.”

  Kowalski was now red-faced, though I doubt he’d been embarrassed by an outburst from someone he probably considered a child. He glared at me over his glasses to try and command my respect. I knew he was offended that I’d lost all sense of protocol while speaking to him, a seasoned veteran. A captain, no less. He stayed silent as if he was trying to decide whether or not reprimanding me would be appropriate given the circumstances. If he made another comment about my fragile state, I couldn’t be held responsible for what came out of my mouth.

  “Victoria.”

  A strident feminine voice intruded before I could continue my rage-fueled tirade. The use of my full first name—by someone I didn’t know, which made it worse—in a tone that sounded like a warning grabbed my immediate attention. And grated on my nerves.

  “Lieutenant McGuire,” Kowalski addressed the woman leaning against the doorframe.

  I had no idea how long she’d been standing outside listening to me rant. And though I’d never seen this woman in my life, she seemed to know me well enough to be using my name like that. She approached Kowalski’s desk, all clean, straight lines and unwavering confidence, not a single loose thread or wrinkle in her starched white Oxford shirt and pressed navy pants. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back into a severe bun as per regulation. Lieutenant McGuire had high, sharp cheekbones that could either cut glass or rule kingdoms. Kowalski seemed a little terrified of her, which would’ve impressed me if I wasn’t pre-annoyed by his utter bullshit.

  “Can I help you?” Kowalski asked.

  “I’ll take it from here, Richard,” she told him. “Come with me, Phoenix.”

  Well, I’m screwed. Say hello to that soul-sucking desk job.

  I followed her out of the room and down the hallway where she turned on her heel to see me running my palm across my face.

  “Take a breath, Victoria,” she advised. “I’d rather you didn’t torch this place and put me out of a job. Then again, maybe you’d knock it down in time.”

  I gaped at her. “How did you—” I glanced up and down the hall, but it was mostly deserted. At first, I didn’t know if I’d heard her right. “How the hell do you know about that?”

  “These people aren’t going to help you. You’ll get nowhere like this,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “Though I don’t blame you for trying. We both know Moretti deserved better.”

  “You knew him?”

  “No,” she said. “But I understand what it’s like to be in your position. And I’m not trying to be condescending. I’ve been here before.” Her warm brown eyes softened. “You deserve better than this, too, though you may not feel like that’s true right now. That feeling’s familiar.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

  “Lieutenant Jodi McGuire,” she introduced. “I haven’t been sitting behind a desk for as long as Kowalski, but I’ve been around.” For the first time in days, that knot of anxiety twisting up my insides loosened its grip. “You know just as well as I do that this city’s fire investigation team is ineffective. There’s unsolved arson cases older than I am collecting dust in the basement.”

  I smirked. “You work here.”

  “It’s a paycheck.” Lieutenant McGuire returned it. “Have you eaten yet? We have a lot to talk about.”

  6

  “So…fire investigation is crooked.”

  I leaned closer to the table, talking in a half-whisper even though we occupied a corner booth and the late lunch crowd would be too ravenous to eavesdrop. Lieutenant McGuire insisted on buying me lunch despite my polite refusals, and now we were sitting in a trendy restaurant a couple blocks down from headquarters. It was spacious and modern; stained butchers block tables and glossy white subway tile and menus written on chalkboards in loopy calligraphy. Industrial lights cast a golden yellowish glow over the interior, and miniature potted plants—a variety of bright green grasses and succulents and cacti—struggled to bring a bit of nature to an urban landscape devoid of it.

  “Please tell me you’re not that naïve. You’ve seen the way nothing gets done around there.”

  “Disappointed, but not surprised,” I corrected, taking a generous sip of coffee. I’d decided on breakfast food, hoping it would be the least harsh on my roiling stomach, though all I’d done so far was poke at my eggs and eat two slices of toast. “I’
ve had my suspicions. I just wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

  “That’s far too kind.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “I can see that now.” I felt Lieutenant McGuire’s eyes on me while I moved my eggs around my plate, provoking ribbons of steam. It didn’t feel like judgment, but maybe concern. “Why do you work for them, then?”

  “Like I said, it’s a steady job.” Her fork was poised over her grilled chicken salad, droplets of vinaigrette dressing falling onto the mix of greens, shredded cheese, and fresh vegetables.

  “And, some of them work for me, Phoenix. I’m not so deluded that I believe I’ll be able to clean this place up myself, but I’m trying to take out some of the trash while I’m here. What I do is honest work. Good people like Moretti should have someone fighting for them who isn’t on the incendiaries’ payroll. It’s the only reason I’ve stayed as long as I have.”

  “Incendiaries?” The word was familiar, of course, but the way she’d used it sounded new to my ears. Some sort of code word passed around in whispers and discreet exchanges that spoke of menace and chaos and a secret world where fire was both the deadliest of all weapons and a culture.

  “The name we’ve given to the demons of Perdition Falls,” Lieutenant McGuire declared, spearing a piece of chicken with her fork. Calm. Composed. Not remotely fucking with me. “Like the one who killed Moretti.”

  I looked away from her in a frantic attempt to process the blasé statement. Everything around us went on like normal; silverware scraping against plates, the clink of ice in glasses and coffee mugs being refilled, the buildup of laughter above the lulling, ambient hum of casual conversations and lunchtime business meetings. A nervous laugh escaped me, though I didn’t mean for it to—not of disbelief, really, but a horrible realization that maybe I’d been caught in something bigger than I thought.