Firebug (30 page)

Her face brightened. “You could start a fire. That would save us all the time of mucking about with kindling.”

 

 

I HAD NEVER
seen so many people in Duncan's kitchen. The drove had taken over the cabin. They moved in like a swarm of locusts, which, considering the way they ate, wasn't far off. The outside of the cabin, usually serene with its dirt driveway and surrounding trees, suddenly became a seething mass of movement. Hares were setting up tents, pulling in campers, and parking motorcycles in clumps. Big camouflage nets were thrown over the larger objects, hiding them from immediate view. Small groups of patrols disappeared into the surrounding wood.

“We've been invaded,” Lock whispered, nudging me.

I watched two of the were patrols motion to each other, theirs hands flicking quickly through several signals before they disappeared back into the brush. “You think they're saying anything important, or just trading dirty jokes?” I whispered back.

Les rubbed his chin, his fingers tracing the fine webbing of scar tissue at his neck. I desperately wanted to ask how it was that he had scars when I'd seen Olive and Sid heal up without a scratch. “Dirty jokes are important,” he said. “They raise morale.” Then he got back down to business, making me go over, for a second time, everything that had happened since we left.

All the talking and waiting was making me anxious. If Venus didn't call soon, I would explode. My mom would have told me not to joke like that. A firebug going supernova isn't funny. I shuddered and grabbed a sandwich off of the platter Sid had put out. The last thing I wanted was to turn into a human meteor.

Les leaned back in his chair, thinking, and I could feel every hare in the room go still, all chatter and motion coming to a stop as they waited to see what their leader would say. “Not much to do now,” Les said, staring at Duncan. “We can't plan until she calls.”

Duncan agreed with a grunt. He was whittling again, this time a tiny fox, by the look of things. I wanted to smack the figure right out of his meaty paws. Was now a really good time for that? What was a tiny wooden fox going to do to help us?

He threw me a questioning look, even though his fingers kept moving, never once stopping their glide as he shaped the wood. Our eyes met, held. I turned away, my jaw clenched so tight, I was surprised my teeth didn't shatter. I felt Lock's knee touch mine as he nudged my leg with his, and despite my best efforts to hold on to my anger like a comfortable old blankie, I felt my muscles relax, the fire in my gut dim and sputter. Lock always had that effect on me. Sometimes I hated him for it. Sometimes I needed that anger.

Duncan put the fox down on the table and the hares eyed it warily, like it might come off the table and nip at them. Since it could fit in the palm of my hand, I didn't see why they all leaned minutely away from it. Even if Duncan made it come to life, wouldn't it still be too small to do any harm? Maybe it was an ingrained survival thing—must beware of foxes, even tiny ones. I squished down a smile.

“We'll just have to wait,” Duncan said, pulling a new chunk of wood from a bin by his chair. I was beginning to think he had a problem, an addiction to whittling. Was that a thing? Could we find him a support group when this was all over?

Les slumped, his eyes on the wooden fox, seemingly more as something to rest his gaze on than anything else. “Maybe we should go over Venus again—her strengths and weaknesses. Try to plan our attack.”

I got up from the table, stretching, knowing this discussion would be fruitless.

“Nothing to add, Ava?” There was a sarcastic note in Les's voice, an accusation I didn't care for.

“I want her gone as much as you do,” I said, wrapping my arms around my waist, suddenly bone weary of it all. “More, probably. But speculation is useless. Besides, I know what her weak spot is, I just don't know if we'll manage to exploit it.”

“If you have something to share with the class…” Duncan said, not looking up from his work.

“Hubris,” I said, holding myself tighter. “With vamps like her, it always comes down to that.” Then I stomped out of the room, refusing to explain myself further. I didn't owe anyone any explanations, least of all Duncan.

 

 

MY MOM
and I were somewhere in Colorado. The air was cold and dry, and the sudden shift up into higher elevation wasn't going well for me. My mom was making me drink tons of water. She was also keeping a hawk eye on me, since I'd start to spark at random times. When that happened, I could never quite tell if she was worried or proud, so I'd made up a new emotion—I called it
woud
, or sometimes
porried
—to describe the welter that seemed to overtake her whenever I made the slightest flame.

We'd holed up in a snug cabin somewhere at the edge of a tiny town. There was no electricity, and I would cozy up on the bench seat by one of the cabin windows, where I'd read and watch the snow fall. I loved the quiet and the sense of safety. My mom must have felt the same way—she didn't look over her shoulder as much when we were there. She'd relaxed a fraction. I watched her from my seat as she sat by the fireplace, humming a tune and doing her best to mend the torn sleeve on my jacket. It was quite an undertaking—I'd torn that sleeve when I'd thrown it over some barbed wire that topped a fence I was climbing. We were running from Coterie men—they'd come close to getting us, and there hadn't been time to be careful. I made it over the fence, but in yanking my jacket, I'd torn the sleeve.

I could have left it, but I knew better. Short term, leaving the jacket would have bought me a few more seconds of running time. Long term, I could have frozen to death, not to mention the importance of all the things I had sewn into the lining—things I needed. Things that might have helped them track us again, or worse, confirm what I was.

A flare of anger over my jacket—and the scratches on my mom's forearms from the same climb—caused sparks to jump from my fingers onto the blankets. I yelped and she sighed as she watched me swat at the tiny spots of singed wool.

“Really, Ava.”

“Sorry, Mom,” I mumbled, rearranging the blanket so the scorched bits were at my feet.

“If you keep this up, I'll have to take your books away. I'm afraid of your fingers on all those flammable pages,” her voice was stern, but I could see a half smile on her lips.

I clutched my paperback to my chest. “You wouldn't dare,” I said, cradling the book protectively.

Her tiny smile flared and then dimmed before she looked away from me, suddenly sad. I padded over to her, resting my hand on her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Mom. Don't be sad, okay?”

She smiled up at me then, but her eyes were wet and shining in the firelight. “You don't need to apologize to me, sweetheart. It's nothing. You just…” She turned back to the fire. “You reminded me of Cade just then, somehow. The expression on your face. And the book.”

The comparison made my chest squeeze, but in a good way. There was no greater compliment from my mom. I would hold on to these moments in my mind, squirrel them away. And sometimes, when things got really bad, I'd bring them out and pretend, just for a second, that Cade was my dad. I knew he wasn't. The math didn't add up. I'd seen photos of the first time he'd met me, when I was two, and he hadn't seen my mom in almost three and a half years before that. The time line just didn't work. Still, I could dream. It was better than trying to imagine a stranger.

I shoved my mom's mending away and flopped on her lap, which I knew would cheer her up.

“Get off, you big whale.” She pushed me gently. “You can't be my child—you're too big. I gave birth to an adorable little girl, not some sort of giant.”

“I can't get up. My legs are broken.”

She laughed and hugged me close, her cheek resting against my hair. When I felt like she was out of her slump, and when I knew it was safe to, I asked when we'd get to visit Cade again. Besides my mom, he was the only thing even remotely consistent in my life. And he made my mom light up in a way that nothing and no one else did.

“I don't know,” she said, her voice a whisper.

I knew better than to ask, and I already knew the answer, but I couldn't help asking anyway. “Why can't we live with him? I'll be careful, Mom. I can hide. I know I can.”

My mom squeezed me. “He practically lives at that bookstore of his, and even if he didn't, his cabin is full of books too. Books are paper, dear. Paper burns really well. It seems like a terrible place for a bug.”

I sat up and play punched her arm. “Be serious.”

“I am,” she said; then, seeing that I wasn't going to give it up, she gave me a real response. “It wouldn't work, sweetheart. Even if we were careful. Even if we hid. Cade wouldn't be safe—we wouldn't be safe.” I could hear the brittle pain in her voice. “Cade deserves to live his life fully. It wouldn't be fair to put him in danger simply so we could be happier.” I saw her reach unconsciously for her necklace, her fingers gripping that tiny silver heart and star.

“I think Cade would risk it,” I said softly, looking down at my hands. “You should let him choose.”

“Sometimes,” my mother said, her voice suddenly firm and taking no nonsense from me, “you have to protect people from their own choices. Without us he's out of harm's way. Our occasional visits are risky enough.”

I did my best preteen sulk, and the flames in the fireplace sputtered in reaction. My mom pulled me close again, her hand stroking the top of my head before she kissed it. “Nothing lasts forever, Ava. Not even the Coterie. That includes Venus. Who knows,” she said, the last bit having a wistful air about it, “maybe someday we can stop running.”

“And live with Cade?” I couldn't help asking, just like I couldn't help the flicker of hope in my chest. It was a child's question—I knew it even then. It was built from cobwebs and air. Fragile. And reality was a big, fat spider, ready to tear it to shreds to get what it wanted.

“Yes, and live with Cade.”

I wished for that future on everything in the room. With every tiny molecule in my being. I would regret that wish later. It was a faerie wish—it came true, but the cost was too high.

My mom complained that her legs were going to sleep, so I slid to the floor, my head resting on her knee. I must have had a hopeful cast to my face, because my mom continued to reassure me.

“I don't know if it will be in our lifetimes, but eventually Venus will be defeated, sweetheart. Empires fall, and so do their emperors.”

“I hope it does happen,” I said. “Soon. But she seems so … invincible.” Because of the stories my mother had told me, Venus loomed large above my life, an overwhelming shadow. Bedtime stories take a different tone when the bogeyman is real.

“Even Venus has her flaws,” my mom said.

“She'll never take her wards off though,” I said. “You told me that.”

My mom shook her head. “That's not what I meant. Don't get so stuck on your gifts that you don't think around them, dear. I was talking about hubris. Her overweaning pride. She thinks of herself like you think of her—like she's indestructible. It will be the death of her someday.”

16

T
HE
W
INDS
OF
C
HANGE
K
IND
OF
B
LOW

WHEN THE PHONE
call finally came, it was Owen's voice on the line. He gave me coordinates and a few hours for travel, putting us at our destination after nightfall, which was probably the reason we were given so much time—Venus wouldn't want the disadvantage of sunlight against her.

I repeated Owen's instructions out loud, and in response there was a flurry of movement as the weres behind me pulled out a map and spread it on the table. As if seeing this, Owen chuckled.

“And let me add one little thing. You know how they always say ‘and come alone' in the movies?”

“I didn't know you watched movies,” I said. I had a hard time picturing Owen doing anything that didn't involve following Venus around or killing things. Did he secretly knit? Make mosaics or dioramas? Owen with downtime—what a frightening picture. “What's your point, Owen?”

“My point is that, while most people would go through the charade, we have no need to. You may bring anyone you wish. But while we'd like to keep you alive, at least for our own needs, we have no real interest in doing the same for your friends. So go ahead. Pick those you want to see die a terrible and painful death. And it will be painful, I can assure you.” Owen was enjoying himself. “Toodle-oo,” he sang, and then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone in my hand until Sid took it from me and hung it up. “Sick little puppy, isn't he?” Then he barked like a dog.

I couldn't help grinning at him. Apparently his cheering powers extended beyond Olive.

Everything became a flurry of movement then. Phone calls were made, bags packed, and all the general chaos of a mass exodus was in evidence. I seemed to be in the way, so I went to my room to prepare myself. Which basically meant stuffing my pockets, getting warm clothes together, and—my personal favorite—eating another sandwich. I was going to need it. There was a quick rap at the door, and then Sid popped in. First Ikka, earlier, now her brother. If I kept entertaining like this, I would have to ask Duncan for a bigger room.

“Good sandwich,” I said, still chewing. “What is it?”

Sid leaned down and sniffed. “Venison. We've got company.”

I stopped chewing. “I'm eating Bambi?”

“No, Bambi was a cartoon. The deer you're eating is completely real. Now get your butt downstairs. You're not going to believe who's here, so I'm not going to bother telling you.” And with that cryptic comment, he left. Ooo-kay.