Baptism of Fire (Playing With Hellfire Book 1)

by Jessie Thomas

  I took another sip of coffee, wishing I had Aunt Meg’s whiskey instead. “Just so we’re clear,” I answered slowly, “you’re talking about real demons. Not a euphemism for assholes who get off on committing arson? Actual demons, as in fire and brimstone, Number of the Beast, pea soup vomiting-and-levitation demons?”

  A hint of a grin tugged at one side of Lieutenant McGuire’s mouth, but she didn’t let it reach any further. “This isn’t The Exorcist,” she said. “Our demon problem is a lot different.”

  “Right.” The incredulous laughter welled up again involuntarily and I didn’t bother to stop it. “You know, just so we’re clear.”

  “Is it that hard for you to believe? After what you’ve seen?” she asked. “The stories have always been there.”

  “Yeah, to keep the economy afloat conning tourists,” I said. “Like the Mothman and Bigfoot. It’s a little weird and quirky but we all play along and tolerate it and the city does whatever with the souvenir money. Actually, I’d love to know what they do with that cash, but now that we’ve established the fire department’s full of weasels, I think I have some idea.”

  “Take a breath,” Lieutenant McGuire reminded. Coffee didn’t usually make me this chatty and wired, but I’d had a very long, strange week. And this was a lot of information to get a handle on.

  “I’m processing,” I replied. “So, exactly how much of those myths are true? The Raze? The Hellmouth?”

  She nodded and made a broad gesture.

  “Oh, fuck me,” I whispered. “All of it?”

  “It’s the city’s biggest open secret,” she confirmed. “One of many, you’ll find. If you know the truth, it’s only because you’ve seen it yourself. We have to play it up because otherwise it would be too dangerous for the general public. It’s the perfect cover.”

  The local folklore had been passed around for centuries to frighten kids and intrigue the part of the adult brain that always wondered if there was something else beyond our known world. Legends were spun about Perdition Falls—then just a small village that went by the name of Buffalo—being razed to the ground by demons in the early 1800s. Historians often refuted this lore based on fact because while the demonic comparison could be made, the old village had been burned down by the British.

  Myth also explained the city’s peculiar sweltering warmth by claiming the entire place sat right on top of the massive Hellmouth these demons had crawled out of. And it was inexplicable. It always had been. We were a sprawling metropolis just a hop, skip, and a jump away from frigid Canada with an average temperature that felt like the surface of the goddamn sun. An anomaly whose rising heat had shaped and transformed and obliterated anything resembling a normal climate for Western New York.

  So, everyone decided: demons.

  Which was, apparently, legit.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Lieutenant,” I said. “I don’t know where to start. I think we’re gonna have to move this conversation somewhere that serves booze.”

  “Well, I’m still on shift, so you can do that on your own time. Though I wouldn’t recommend it. You’ve hardly eaten.” she said. “And you can call me Jodi while we’re off the record.”

  “These incendiaries…” I traced my fingertip around the rim of my empty coffee mug, shaking my head. The slang still felt foreign on my own tongue. Where could I even begin? I had one foot still firmly planted in reality with the other in a completely different world where conversations about demons happened regularly. “What flavor of demon are they? You said an exorcism won’t quite do the job.”

  “The fire that killed Moretti—the same fire you put out—that was Hellfire, Phoenix. It’s what razed this city to the ground. What’s sitting beneath us and, I assume, stoking their power. You’re lucky to have survived it.” Jodi grew serious, her tone quiet as she wilted from my curious stare. Until now, I didn’t think she had the ability to shrink away from anything. “Not many people do.”

  Actual honest-to-Satan Hellfire. I couldn’t deny that it checked out. The flames that night had been lethally hot, not to mention electric blue, moving in a way that could only be described as supernatural. I’d known it then but now I had an explanation for it.

  “They can control it,” I said. “Never seen anyone move the way this guy did. Disappearing into thin air, throwing around flames.”

  “Incendiaries aren’t human,” Jodi said. “They’ve infiltrated the city since The Raze by imitating us, building lives like we do. But they’re nothing more than monsters. Soulless entities made to destroy.”

  I settled back against the cushion of the booth. “Hellfire–slinging monsters. Got it.”

  “Infernokinesis is the technical term,” Jodi explained casually, as only someone who’d been dealing with this for years could be. “Deadlier than your average pyrokinesis and only practiced by demons. Hellfire can burn for an eternity if they want it to,” Jodi explained. “But you knocked it down. Alone. And you’re still breathing.”

  Yeah, don’t remind me.

  Peering at her with narrowed eyes, I lifted my gaze from the plate of cold, uneaten breakfast food. “So what does that make me?”

  “We don’t have to stay long.” Once the low, rumbling engine of the SUV cut off, I heard the click of the key being pulled out of the ignition. “Any time you want to leave, you tell me, all right?”

  I hadn’t looked out the window yet. My leg bounced erratically under the hand I’d settled on top of my thigh. My nails scraped against the denim, panic already sidling in alongside the jolt of caffeine and the receding effects of the painkillers and whiskey.

  “I know it’ll be hard to stand there again. Believe me, I wouldn’t make you come here if I didn’t think it was important. Police and arson may have finished their investigations, but it’s still an active scene. I think it’s something you should see to help you understand all of this.”

  She pushed open her door, sliding the set of keys into her pocket. “And, I want you to see that there’s people who can help. People who aren’t anything like the weasels in the department.”

  She flashed a crooked smirk and hopped out of the SUV we’d taken from headquarters back to the location of the fire. I needed another minute to myself before I followed her. The PFFD vehicle had been parked across from the lot of overgrown and dry grass—which I was surprised to find hadn’t caught any of the flames but was probably the cover story that fire investigation used. A brush fire would’ve been far more plausible than demons. Slamming the passenger door closed, I trailed Jodi with my eyes downcast to the cracked concrete of the sidewalk where even the sagging weeds had trouble flourishing.

  In my mission to avoid looking at whatever had become of the house, I noticed a second vehicle parked ahead of ours. Similar in style to our SUV, this one appeared more compact, less boxy than the FD vehicles and maybe newer with a stylish matte black finish. Blue lights instead of red, though they perched on top of the car unlit. It seemed to be an official vehicle, unmarked, and not any law enforcement organization I would’ve been familiar with. My first thought was FBI or CIA, but I doubted either of those investigated fire demons. I had seen those cars before a few times in the past, though, always skirting the edges of scenes while we worked them and lurking from a safe distance.

  “Detective Rashid.” I heard Jodi call to whoever was sifting through the fire ground, but I couldn’t stop staring at the gaps in the concrete. Was there really Hellfire somewhere down below, burning under my shoes?

  “Jodi,” another voice, raspy but with a sweetened lilt, answered. “Thanks for meeting me here. I know it’s not ideal, but we have another active scene close by that we’re monitoring.”

  “Related to this case?”

  “No,” the other woman answered. “That one’s your typical PF pyro nonsense. A little less complicated than this.”

  “Keeping you busy, huh?” Jodi remarked.

  “Always.”

  Their conversation was sat on the furthes
t edge of my periphery, an afterthought. I stood a world apart on a forlorn, broken sidewalk, the sorrow that lingered in the wreckage of the house crushing against my lungs. It was now a collection of scorched remains left in a heap of trash and entombed by yellow police tape. Maybe it was for the best that I didn’t have to look up and see the burned out husk of the abandoned house, a gaping maw of blackened rooms and splintered wood. The house may not have been standing anymore, but an emotional imprint had been left behind in the ruins. If demons existed, did Anthony Moretti’s ghost wander the rubble searching for an escape that wasn’t there?

  Somewhere underneath the sadness that had left a permanent stain in the dry earth, I still sensed a hot current, raw energy prickling at my skin. Some kind of power haunting the ashes. A ripple like humidity shimmering in the air above a stretch of pavement baking under a high sun.

  “Phoenix.” I didn’t know how many times Jodi had called me, but from the way her eyes softened, I could guess that it had been long enough to become worrisome. I turned away from the mountain of debris, a little unnerved that I’d spaced out so badly. “This is Detective Zahira Rashid. She’s with the Pyro Crime Unit.”

  The hijabi woman standing next to Jodi reached over to shake my hand. Steel-toe, heeled boots made her taller than me by an inch or two. A bright turquoise hijab complimented her brown skin, paired with black jeans and a dark denim jacket. There was a constellation of freckles across her heart-shaped face.

  “Victoria Phoenix,” I introduced. “Most people call me Nix.”

  “I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss.”

  I bowed my head, kicking at a loose piece of concrete. “Thank you.”

  “Working around police and arson has been a headache, as you can probably imagine,” Detective Rashid remarked. “The problem with them—I’m sure Jodi’s told you—is that whoever the arsonist is, they help pay their salary. Not always directly, but the demons footing the bill depend on the bottom feeders to do their dirty work. Things would get real messy real fast. They protect their own and anyone else in their pocket. It keeps the incendiaries out of the public eye, but at the cost of the victims and their families.”

  “But don’t you work for fire investigation?” I asked.

  “No,” Detective Rashid said. “The PCU isn’t affiliated with any other law enforcement agency. We do our own thing, keep a low profile.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

  “Fire investigation lacks the specialized skillset for dealing with pyros even if they wanted to work those cases,” Detective Rashid said. When I gave her a blank look, one eyebrow raised, she continued. “Apologies. I forgot you’re new at this. Most of the time we deal with pyromancers who can’t handle their fire—that rash of mystery arsons you hear about? Nine times out ten, they’re set by pyrokinesis. Meaning, they can create and control fire—not Hellfire, just your common blaze—with a supernatural ability.”

  “Humans?” I asked.

  Like me.

  Detective Rashid nodded. “Humans with a little something extra,” she confirmed. “We keep track of them, lock them up occasionally. Bind their power if they’ve caused more damage than it’s worth. Or if the damage resulted in homicide.”

  “Zahira’s a null,” Jodi explained. “She can knock out a pyromancer’s power if they’re a danger to themselves or the public.”

  “Convenient,” I said. “Does it work on demons?”

  “Never tried,” Rashid admitted. “We’re not exactly trained to handle them. That’s not our jurisdiction and, to be honest, they’re never around long enough to test it out.”

  I watched the tape flutter in the breeze. “So…you don’t hunt demons.”

  “We don’t have the means to do that kind of fighting,” Detective Rashid said. “I try and track them if I can, keep tabs on their movements. But that’s as far as I can go.”

  “I know that might not inspire a lot of confidence in the PCU,” Jodi cut in. “You have to understand, we’re up against an infestation. It takes time, especially when most of the city has fallen victim to their influence. There are very few places the incendiaries haven’t cast their shadow. This is one of them.”

  “What you’re saying is,” I gathered, slowly, “Perdition Falls has a…demonic Mafia?”

  “You’re catching on pretty quick,” Detective Rashid said. “It’s not going to be easy, but I promise you, I’m going to do everything I can to help you find the incendiary responsible for killing Mr. Moretti. All off the record, of course. Everyone at the PCU gets weird if you start talking about demons. Not me. I’ve watched them get away with every crime in the book. Someone has to dethrone them.”

  “Zahira’s doing me a favor,” Jodi said. “And risking her job for it.”

  “It’s not like you haven’t done the same,” Detective Rashid answered. “I usually pass along the cases where I think incendiaries are involved to Jodi. She has the experience I don’t. But this one is going to take a bit of teamwork. Demons this powerful aren’t usually the ones committing arson.”

  “How did you know it’s an incendiary and not a…pyromancer?”

  Those words, with their new and preternatural meanings, still felt strange on my lips. When I woke up this morning intent on giving Kowalski an earful, I didn’t know it would be a day of expanding my vocabulary and opening my third eye to the reasons for Perdition Falls’ inherent weirdness.

  Detective Rashid grinned. “I’m glad you asked.”

  She stepped off the sidewalk onto the scored earth, yellowed grass and dry soil churned up from the demolition of the house. Ripping down the police tape, she led us through the remains to the deep gouges in the dirt. I moved gingerly over the uneven ground, grimacing when the jostling motion clawed at my side. The painkillers and whiskey had lost all their effectiveness.

  “I had to wait for everyone else to clear out,” she explained. “They kept a pretty tight perimeter. Unfortunately for us, that makes our job more difficult. The residual power faded considerably by the time we could start our investigation.” Her hazel eyes flittered to mine. “Any sort of power that’s used, it leaves behind trace amounts like a fingerprint. Though it’s never that specific. If it was, we’d wrap up this case a lot faster.”

  “Residuals from incendiaries look different—and feel different, but that’s not my area of expertise, that’s all Zahira,” Jodi offered.

  “Similar, yeah, but incendiaries have a lot more kick behind their power than your typical pyromancer.”

  “I can feel it,” I said. “I think. I recognized it from before.”

  “I thought you might,” Detective Rashid said, lowering to a crouch. “You’re part of the reason why I had trouble getting a solid read. We barely had enough residuals left from the incendiary. It’s there, it’s just not enough to track. Your residual power is still off the charts—honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of super-powered pyros before.”

  “Not exactly,” Jodi said. “It’s rare. You’ve got more than the average pyromancer. A lot more, in fact.”

  “What does that make me, then?” I asked for the second time that day. Beads of sweat made my blouse stick to the small of my back, the day’s heat amplifying the internal panic that came with this new information. “What the hell am I?”

  Human…but with a lot extra?

  “Different.”

  “Great,” I deadpanned.

  “You aren’t alone, though,” Detective Rashid assured. “Jodi’s told me there’s at least two others in PF with the same heat signature you left behind. And that’s just who we know of, personally. There could be more.”

  Still, it was a lot to take in. A rare breed in a city apparently teeming with corrupt officials, arsonist demons throwing around Hellfire, and people who mixed alcohol with pyromancy and bad decisions.

  Now I understood why Perdition Falls was like that.

  “Would you like to see wha
t residual power looks like?”

  “It’s a thing you can see?”

  “Only if you have the right tools,” she said. “Not everyone has the sight for tracking. Just like not everyone’s a null. And you’ve got to have one or the other to work for the PCU.”

  She dug into the inside pocket of her leather jacket and produced a box of matches chewed up at the corners. Without meaning to, I held my breath as she dragged a clean match against the striker on the bottom of the tattered box. The puff of sulfuric air and hiss of an igniting flame made me lightheaded. I attempted to hide my shaky hands by tightening them into fists and dropped to a knee next to her. Her free hand was suspended over the ash and soil, fingers flexing as if she wanted to rake the dry earth.

  “Got to use what I have,” she explained. “I can’t create fire like you pyros whenever I need a catalyst.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “The fire ground to tell us its secrets.”

  There was a tremor underneath me as the soil yielded under Detective Rashid’s touch. It was a strange ripple effect, just enough movement it that kicked up a haze of ash. She drew the flame across it following lines that I couldn’t see, and the more the match between her fingers burned, the ash transformed to light. A gasp escaped my throat before I could reel it in. The match fizzled out, but the effects were still there. The ash had been illuminated like dust motes floating in rays of sun. Except the light had a pattern all its own, a pulse, a color.

  “That’s you, right there.” She traced the chaos of a bright white line that ran across the ground as it if it was lightning. “It’s still hot. We’re at the epicenter of where your power began. I found the path when I was here the first time.”

  I whistled low. “Damn.”

  “Yeah, that’s putting it mildly,” Detective Rashid laughed. “This here—see that light intersecting yours? It’s weaker, paler. You can still feel it, can’t you? It would’ve been a brighter blue when ignited. I’ve only seen Hellfire once, but you don’t forget that.”