Firebug (3 page)

I was barely thirteen when I stood in that hallway, Venus's goons flanking me so I didn't bolt. Cade wasn't allowed to attend, even though he was my legal guardian. He wasn't Coterie. He wasn't even an Associate. The goons latched on to my arms with grips that went beyond iron. Both were warded, and neither had much sympathy for me. There was no small talk, just two thugs holding a quaking firebug in their grips in front of large oak doors.

At some signal I neither saw nor heard, the thugs opened the doors and dragged me in. The room was dark and not as big as I'd thought it would be. Thirty people in robes of dark crimson, their deep cowls putting their faces into shadow, stood in a circle, parting only for me and my escorts. My bare feet left prints, outlines of sweat and heat, as they led me through the crowd. I couldn't see anyone's face. I'd known I wouldn't be able to, but it bothered me all the same. The only light was from a series of candles set on tall wrought-iron candelabras. It was a little over the top for my taste, but the scene did its job. I was terrified out of my wits.

The circle enclosed me; the thugs released my arms and disappeared back into the sea of red. Venus stood in the center with me, the only other person besides me not wearing red. Her robe was snow white and blinding. She stood there, silver dagger in hand, and said nothing. A small smile played on her lips, and even though I'd never gone further than kissing a boy, I remember thinking,
That's a lover's smile, and not the nice kind.
It was a smile of desire that had nothing to do with sex or love. Venus's smile was one of possession. The curve of her lips said that no matter what happened after this, first and foremost I was hers. I would always be hers. I swallowed hard, sparks appearing around my hands like tiny stars.

One of the red robes came up and drew on me with oil. The hands were small and delicate, which made me think it was a woman, but that was the only evidence I had. She drew on my forehead, the palms of my hands, and the tops of my feet. I couldn't quite figure out what she was drawing, and before I could ask, she used an index finger to cover my lips in that same oil. The sharp smell coming off it was so strong that my mouth was filled with the taste. My throat constricted, and I had to choke down the saliva.

Someone handed the woman a brass bowl, and before I could wonder at its contents, she reached her hand in, settling a mound of ash into her open palm. I barely had time to close my eyes before she blew the ash onto the oil. The marks she had drawn sprang to life then, and it felt like fire, like the burn of a blowtorch against my skin. I screamed and fell to my knees. Red robes tried to draw me back up, but I didn't make it easy on them. I hung like dead weight, my skin burning, a thunderous headache banging between my temples, and in my mouth now only the taste of ash.

With a distinct and unhelpful certainty, I knew those delicate hands belonged to a witch. I'd just been warded, and while it wasn't permanent, it certainly sucked. The robes finally got me on my feet, and Venus snatched my hand. She clasped it, her icy fingers prying open my balled fist.

“Ava Jane Sheppard,” she said, raising the knife.

“Halloway,” I said. “It's Halloway now.” I saw no reason to hold onto my name—no family to attach it to, and plenty of old Coterie baggage my mother's name might stir up. Taking Cade's name made sense to me.

“Halloway it is, then,” Venus said, “Ava Jane Halloway,” she said, and then she sliced my hand with that silver knife. Blood welled. I wanted to yank my hand back, instinctively cradle away the pain, but I couldn't extract it from her grip. She fixated on the wound, and for a split second I thought her vampiric nature would get the best of her. With her free hand, she lifted her ward, keeping the chain around her neck. She placed the ward in my palm, rune side up, the design for fire winking at me before the silver charm disappeared into the blood and ash.

“You belong to us now,” she said. The room narrowed to her and me and my bloody palm. “The Coterie comes first, before all things. It is your family now. Your lifeblood.” She put the hand still holding the blood-smeared knife over my heart. “Your heart beats only to please us.” Her hand moved to my forehead. “Your only thoughts are for our well-being.” Blue eyes dug into mine. “When you speak, you speak for us. What you move, you move for us. Where you walk, you do so at our will.” Her fingers touched lips, palms, feet, and all I could do was stand there. She pressed a folded square of linen onto my wound, and I could feel it pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Venus never looked around. She only had eyes for me. The witch returned with another brass bowl, this one filled with hot coals. Venus used the linen to pick up her ward and dropped both items into the bowl. The linen caught and burned, but the ward remained untouched. Only my blood dried and flaked away from the heat. The witch put the bowl on a stand, and Venus finally let go of my hand. Before I could hold it to me, the witch grabbed it and squeezed. The wound responded with more blood, and the witched tipped it while holding a cold glass vial close underneath. The clear glass became clouded with blood and ash. She set it aside, and my hand was wrapped with fresh linen, then returned to me at last.

I cradled it while Venus used her dagger to remove her ward from the bowl. I knew better than to think that was her only ward, but a reckless part of me whispered that I should turn my powers on her anyway, to see how much of her we could burn. My fingers pressed harder into my bandage, and I knew there would be singe marks where my fingers rested. For now I kept them covered.

Steam rose as the ward was dipped in cool water before Venus returned it to its usual resting place around her neck. The witch handed me an honest-to-goodness feather quill, and a parchment was unrolled before me. I signed my name with ink made of ash and my blood and knew it was mostly a formality. The real pact was in the ritual. That's where the magic lay. The witch in front of me was a blood witch—blood was her element as much as fire was mine. I was screwed. There was no getting out of my pact. That didn't mean I wouldn't try.

Venus leaned forward and put her lips on mine. She leaned back and her smile widened, growing with her feeling of possession. “You are mine, now, little firebug,” she said, and I trembled.

And then the cowls came down. I was allowed to see their faces now. I was elite. I was made, I was damned, and there was no going back.

 

 

I BOLTED
awake, drenched in sweat and swearing like a sailor. I gulped in warm air and oriented myself. The ritual was over, past and done. I was home. I was safe. My breath came out in a relieved whoosh. Then I sat on the edge of my mattress.

I don't wake up well, even when I'm not having nightmares. I had almost kicked Lock when I sat up. Lock had started out curled up next to me but ended up on the floor, probably when he became tired of me elbowing him for snoring. Ezra was sleeping on the couch because he was too good for the floor, and too handsy in general for bed sharing. Not that he wanted to get handsy with me, specifically. His was more of a hands-on-anybody sort of thing.

I heard Cade whistling in the kitchen, accompanied by the occasional clink of dishes. Damn it, he was doing my chores again. I dug around the floor until I found my slippers. The idea of flopping back into bed was very tempting. After hearing the clink of another dish, though, I started searching around on my nightstand for a ponytail holder to pull my hair back and get it under control. Finding the elastic was harder than it sounds. My room is small but messy, and I'm always losing things. It was even smaller with Lock sprawled out on my floor like a human rug.

I finally found a band behind a small picture frame on my desk—me, Lock, and Ezra at Palace Playland last summer. In the photo, Lock and I are mugging for the camera, my dark hair wild from the sea spray, wind, and rides, Lock grinning like a mad person and squeezing me to him despite my rat's nest. Ezra looks like Ezra—pretty and too cool for school, his hair mussed but seeming like he meant it to be that way. Ez had wanted to stay at the beach but caved after I'd reminded him that the amusement park was full of marks. What can I say; I'm a fiend for Skee-Ball, and Ezra likes to pick pockets. Lock made him turn all the wallets in to the lost and found at the end of the day. Ezra didn't actually want the money, he just liked the challenge, and that challenge doubled when he had to find a way to get thirteen wallets into the lost and found without anyone noticing.

I smiled at the picture and went about the annoying process of taming my hair into a ponytail. I'd have to do some laundry soon or clean my room, I thought as I took in the mess around me. It was too small to not keep it in some sort of order. Though if I left Lock in it long enough, he'd clean it for me, which was enticing. I use the word
room
in the loosest sense of the word—it was just a small loft above the den. There was enough space for a single mattress and box spring, a nightstand, and a sorry excuse for a dresser. I think the loft was originally intended to create an office space in the one-bedroom cabin. Whatever its initial intention might have been, it was cozy, it was clean (sometimes), and it was mine. I'd never had my own room until I started living with Cade. Every once in a while, I would reach out to touch the wall, just to make sure it was real.

Cade had tried to give me the bedroom downstairs when I'd moved in, stating some nonsense about a teenage girl needing her own space, but I refused. Moving me into the house had been costly—the walls had had to be treated with fire-retardant sealers and paint, a sprinkler system was installed, and we were probably the only house in America that owned fifteen fire extinguishers. Cade rarely has to get them refilled anymore except for maintenance reasons, but he still checks them. Regularly. The couches and mattresses are routinely treated with a chemical that makes them fire resistant. And, hey, it makes them stain resistant too. We buy the stuff in bulk and keep it in the unattached shed, where Cade stores anything even remotely flammable on lockdown. I'm not allowed within ten yards of the storage shed.

At least he wasn't making me do monthly fire drills anymore. I think after he'd forked over the cash to get the cabin spelled and warded against fire by a Coterie-sanctioned witch, he'd chilled out a bit. He would have felt better with an independent contractor, but there wasn't a witch within three hundred miles who would come near me without Venus's okay.

Wards aren't cheap, so we only had the witch do the house itself. Between the magic and the stuff we sprayed on the walls, we figured we were covered. The furniture and linens had to settle for human-made chemicals only. Except for my sheets. They sported a fine edging of warded embroidery. You think silk sheets are expensive? Not even close to how much warding will set you back. I guess it's a good thing I can't go to college (as if Venus would allow
anything
that might cut into my time, or as she saw it,
her
time). Couldn't afford it anyway.

So I wouldn't take the only bedroom in the house. Cade did enough for me; I wasn't about to make him sleep in a loft.

I padded into the kitchen, my slippers making a soft scraping noise on the hardwood floors as I did. As soon as it was warm enough, I'd go barefoot again, and I was looking forward to it. Cade had the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled haphazardly so he could scrub the dishes. I gave a small wave to our morning visitor, Duncan, who was sipping coffee at the kitchen table. He smiled back before I turned a glare on my guardian as I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“You're doing my chores again.” If Ez were awake, he would shake his head in dismay at me for saying that. Ez spends his entire life doing his best to avoid work, and here I was asking for it. What he doesn't get is that chores are important. They are daily ritual. And normal teens do chores. After a night like the previous one, hunting the ice elemental, I wanted back into normal as quickly as possible. Duncan got it—I could tell by the way he looked at me. Not for the first time, I wondered what Duncan had done in his life that made it so easy for him to understand me. Cade probably thinks I do the chores just to repay his kindness.

He placed a wet plate into the drying rack. I set my coffee down and grabbed a dishcloth and the dripping silverware already in the drainer.

“You looked tuckered out, Rat.”

I smacked him with my towel. “You turned off my alarm.”

“I sure did,” he said, completely unrepentant. He rinsed some bowls and put them in front of me. “And nearly stepped on your friend in the process.”

“How am I supposed to be a responsible adult if you let me sleep in and you do my work for me?”

He reached over and put a blob of suds on the end of my nose. “You have two jobs, you work really hard, and you help around the house. Everyone deserves a break, Rat. Besides, you're not eighteen yet.”

“Soon.”

“Soon doesn't mean now. It means later. Don't rush it on me.”

Duncan chuckled into his coffee cup. “Rat” may not sound like the most endearing nickname in the world, but it was when it came from Cade. When I was little, before I lived with him, he used to call me Mouse—something to do with my squeaky little-girl voice, I think. But when I showed up on his doorstep about five years ago, drenched from rain and shaking with cold and grief over my dead mother, he'd said I looked like a half-drowned rat, before he ushered me in and wrapped me in a blanket. After that, he didn't call me Mouse anymore. I guess I was no longer small and squeaky.

Lock and Ezra came stumbling into the kitchen, Lock quietly grabbing a mug out of the cupboard and getting coffee and Ezra flopping in a chair, whining and waiting to be served, as usual. I grabbed a cup of coffee for Ez, holding it out of reach until he said “please.”

Ezra cradled the mug in his hands. “What is it with you people and your hours? It's not even
noon
yet. That's hardly civilized behavior. Rising at the crack of dawn and getting up to who knows what—” Cade silenced him by slipping a plate of food in front of him. The only way to close Ezra's mouth was to put something in it. Lock leaned against the counter and didn't say anything, but I could tell he wanted to roll his eyes.