Playing with Fire (2 page)

“You mean, like Converted droppings?”

He grinned, and Fiona’s whole body flushed again when a dimple appeared in one cheek. Making this man smile was enough to set her off like they were fifteen again.

The years had been good to him—improved him. How was that even fair?

“Think of it as more of a chemical signature,” he said, his hands moving as he spoke, his little ash collection tools waving. He was a hand talker—funny she didn’t remember that. Long, wide fingers moved gracefully, animatedly. They looked strong, capable, dexterous… Fiona licked her lips and forced her gaze back to his face.

If Ian noticed her inattention, he didn’t show it. He was too involved in his topic, his mouth full of sexy, multisyllabic words.

“We’ve discovered that the conversion serum changes the isotopic makeup of the body. When the powers are used, trace amounts of radiation evidence can be detected in the residue. I can take this ash to my lab and test it. If, as I suspect, this has human origins, I should be able isolate the energy signature to find out.”

Fiona leaned heavily on one foot and let her eyes glaze over, like a person too stupid to understand any term remotely scientific. Ian stopped, something like disappointment twisting in the corner of his mouth.

Ian smart, Fiona dumb. Ian pure, Fiona the village bicycle. How easy it was to fall into their teenage roles once again. How easy it was for him to accept it.

She should have been grateful that acting dumb worked—and happy to see him so quickly derailed. So why did the forest suddenly look so blurry?

“You’re like some super smart mad scientist now?” she asked. She sounded ridiculous but was determined to play to her audience. What was it they always said? The show must go on?

“Not mad.” He shook his head. “Just one of the few people studying this stuff with the goal of full, public disclosure. You’d be surprised what I know about the Corrupted and their capabilities.”

“What you know,” she repeated.

That didn’t sound good. The less people knew about her, the better. Fiona took a few steps back, her arms still carefully clamped across her body, her hands tucked safely away. She needed an exit strategy. And fast.

“I should probably go. Got to get my adrenaline going again, right?”

Ian’s gaze was sharp, and he snapped his little envelope shut with something approaching triumph. Before she could do more than blink, he reached forward, as if he might brush his hand over her head—caress her, even. Every instinct made her want to turn into it like a cat.

She jumped back before he could make contact, before she made a fool of herself and started purring right on the forest floor. “I mean it. I can feel the lactic acid building up in my muscles.”

“Athletics? Those shoes don’t even count for barefoot running. You really want to stick with that excuse?”

“It was good seeing you again, Ian,” she said. “We’ll have to catch up one of these days.”

Without looking back, Fiona darted into the forest, following the same trail as the firemen. A huge rock lodged under her right toe, but she kept going.

Almost as if she was running from fire.

Chapter Two

Ian stood near the outer edge of the crowd. No one could accuse him of participating in the rally, but he wasn’t doing anything to move away from it, either.

“And do you know what I saw next?” the man on the stage roared. He held up his hands, and the crowd hushed. The audience was as captive as Ian had ever seen, manipulated into drones of absolute submission. “I witnessed a deed so horrific, so inhuman, I felt a piece of my own soul slipping away. A man sliced in half, his last words lost in the abundant flow of blood from his mouth. The perpetrator never touched the sword—just waved his hand, using his internal magnets to murder an innocent human being in cold blood, leaving no trace for authorities to follow.”

The man swept across the platform, pantomiming the murderer in his story. With sandy hair and clean-cut features, he was a strange candidate for this sort of macabre reenactment. He looked more like a friendly neighborhood doctor than a villain, the type of guy you trusted with your children and impressionable teenage daughters.

Ian had heard of him before, of course. It was hard not to these days. The man called himself General Eagle, a nickname all the advertisements pushed alongside a particularly cringe-worthy slogan of
Your Eye on the Truth
. The posters called it
The Campaign for Justice
.

In theory, Ian approved of the campaign. General Eagle was one of the few people in the world who believed in the existence of the Corrupted and their capabilities. In the past few years, he’d singlehandedly made the Corrupted a household name, forcing people to re-think the potential dangers of a population with powers beyond what nature intended.

If his stories were to be believed, he was also one of the only people doing anything to stop them. Although he hadn’t ever said so formally, it was rumored he was a Converted himself. His exact powers were a mystery, but at least two people had been put behind bars on General Eagle’s watch this year alone.

The General pulled a woman onto the platform and asked if she could name any neighbors she suspected of complying with the Corrupted, and Ian couldn’t help but shudder. The guy was a total douche. He was like a Victorian snake oil man, dressed in a three-piece suit and carrying a suitcase full of tinctures to sell to the unwary. Even the posters nailed up all over Ashland—normally a quiet place, where people went about their business ignorant of the Corrupted incidents igniting the larger metropolitan cities—were something out of a traveling show. Like Barnum & Bailey on a witch hunt.

“Did you hear that, citizens? She has children.” General Eagle paused and bowed his head. “Children who must live with the mistakes we made. Children who will only ever know a world where monsters walk among us.”

That put an end to Ian’s interest in the public demonstration. He turned away from the surging crowd, unable to tolerate any more.

What he found wasn’t much better. At the edge of the street, aloof and alone, stood a blond woman. Her mouth was screwed up in a thin line, and an angry grimace contorted the otherwise flawless features of her face.

Fiona.

Ian’s stomach clenched. Twice in two days he’d encountered this woman, and he still didn’t know what his reaction should be. He certainly knew what it
was
, and it wasn’t appropriate for the time or the place. Desire. Guilt. The need to whisk her to his lab for the sole purpose of collecting saliva samples.

Fiona watched the man on the stage with such intensity she didn’t notice Ian approaching. “You again,” he said.

“Can you believe this guy?” she muttered, not paying Ian the least bit of attention. “Can’t you call your cop friends or something? I doubt he has a permit. This has to be some kind of public disturbance.”

Her disinterest caught him off guard, and his insides roiled with the flux of past and present, coming together
now
, of all times.

“Interesting,” he said, studying her. Didn’t she know how close she was to being his number one suspect in the fire case? “You have something against the number one Corrupted watchdog in the country?”

That got her. She turned a death stare right on him. “I already told you. The Corrupted don’t exist. That man—” She stabbed her finger at the stage, before seeming to think better of it and shoving her hand behind her back. With a deep breath, she continued, “He’s creating unnecessary panic for his own gain.”

Ian agreed with her one hundred percent, but he’d be damned if he’d say so out loud. Suspicion beat a warning pulse. First Fiona had been present at an obvious scene of Corrupted destruction. And now she looked ready to murder General Eagle. The obvious conclusion—that she was one of them—screamed loud and clear.

But Ian was a scientist first and foremost, and proof was his foundation, his rock.
Proof
. It didn’t matter how much his body reacted to seeing her again.

Ian remembered Fiona from high school, of course. Back then, she’d seemed to exist solely to torment adolescent males, a Siren of the worst kind. He couldn’t remember a time when her short skirts and tube tops weren’t a part of his every waking—and sleeping—fantasy, when he wouldn’t have traded his entire collection of D&D cards for a chance to smell her hair.

She’d known it, of course. Girls like that always did.

“It’s kind of strange that we’ve run into each other twice now,” he said. “Care to explain the coincidence?”

Her lips, painted the perfect red of a retro Flash suit, parted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The fire yesterday,” Ian said. “You never did explain what you were doing there.”

Those lips pursed. They quirked. They quivered. It was like watching a peep show in the middle of the street, and his body reacted. The profound urge to hide her away where no one else could see—where he could keep those lips all to himself—was almost too strong to bear.

Strange how little things had changed.

“I don’t owe you anything.” There was a challenge in her eyes, which sparkled vibrant green in the sun. Her voice dropped. “You may have forgotten what happened all those years ago, but I haven’t.”

As if such a thing were possible. They’d been friends once, in the sense that he’d pined and she’d let him. Back then, she was exotic and forward and outgoing. He…mostly liked to play with Bunsen burners.

He blamed inexperience for what had happened. Inexperience and his inability to read her interest in him as anything more than platonic friendship. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened, but the situation had its roots in her bare leg pressed up against his as they sat side-by-side in his bedroom. One minute they were working on flashcards for the periodic table of elements, and then next she’d been on top of him, all that expanse of flesh under his fingertips. More importantly, her tongue had been inside his mouth. It had been all his dreams and nightmares at once, and he hadn’t known how to slow things down to a more comfortable pace.

So of course it had ended up a botched job of epic proportions, arms and legs and moisture where they didn’t belong, fumbled attempts that resulted in his hand up her skirt and no idea what to do once it got there.

He cringed. It was difficult to see her like this. Grown up. Confident. Staring at him like he was still fifteen years old and the cause of all her adolescent woes. Staring at him like he still had no idea what he was doing.

Forget that. He did know what he was doing. He was collecting evidence, whether she liked it or not. This was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for.

Before she could say anything more, Ian reached for her hair—a crop of blond curls that bounced almost to her shoulders. She stared at his hand, unmoving. He did what he’d been too chicken to do the day before.

He yanked.

“Ow!” She shot back, holding a hand to her head with a frown. “Are you insane?”

“Sorry,” he replied. He tucked the single strand of hair into the palm of his hand and turned away. “There was a bug.”

It was as good an excuse as any, and Fiona didn’t say anything more. With a harassed-sounding huff, she left.

Ian let her. As much as he wanted to call out—to prolong any opportunity to be near her—there were some things more important than his feelings.

He looked at the strand of hair he held in his hand.

Science. Truth. Proof.

And now he had it.

Chapter Three

“Dude. You’re just in time. I’ve made the discovery of a lifetime.”

Ian took one look at Neil, his research assistant, and laughed. “If you’re about to tell me you’re just now finding out what ‘Hot Pocket hangover’ means, I’m not interested.”

“Not even close.” Neil sprang out of his chair and gestured for Ian to take his place at his computer. Despite a diet composed primarily of frozen pizza products, Neil always moved with a buoyant energy and barely tipped the scales past one hundred and twenty. “I pinpointed the signature of the residue from the forest.”

Levity fled, and Ian fell to the chair, the upholstery still warm. He tapped a few keys and studied the complex string of code staring back at him, determined to find an error. Despite his boast to Fiona, they weren’t as far along in their research as he would have liked. Something had to be missing.

But everything looked accurate, at least at first glance. If Neil was right, Ian was looking at evidence that would, without a doubt, link one person to the scene of the crime. That meant not only did the Corrupted leave behind proof of their handiwork, but it was possible to identify the culprit—and unlike General Eagle and his stage theatrics, Ian was in a position to actually do something about it.

“The magic code, yo,” Neil said with a grin. “Tell the po po to stick that in their little blue caps and smoke it.”

Ian fell back in the chair, the hiss of the hydraulics giving way underneath him. “I can’t believe I wasn’t here for this.”

“Seriously,” Neil agreed. He grabbed a stress ball from the desk and tossed it around. His nervous repetition was contagious, and Ian began jiggling his leg up and down. “Where were you all this time?”

Ian’s leg moved faster. “I went to the rally downtown.”

Neil frowned. “You didn’t invite me?”

Ian swiveled the chair around and faced his friend of twenty years. They’d practically grown up together, their parents’ houses situated back-to-back in one of those cul-de-sac neighborhoods where no one had a fence and everyone shared a yard with the obligatory giant trampoline. The two of them had been working on the conversion serum research for the last five years, after Neil had returned from graduate school obsessed with the Corrupted conspiracies that abounded at MIT.

Neil worked for almost nothing, knew more than anyone else about the conversion serum, and had unflagging dedication to the project. They were more than friends; they were partners. And for the past two years, all their attempts to contact the Conversion Office had been met with a referral to Agent Harding, official hardass and their biggest critic. No matter what information they brought to the table, Harding thanked them for their time and hung up.

That pompous, overblown showman General Eagle had more credibility than they did. The thought didn’t do much to boost Ian’s self-confidence.

“I was just passing by. But I sort of ran into someone there, so I got held up,” Ian said, choosing his words carefully. Neil would remember Fiona from high school, too, but Ian wasn’t sure how much of the afternoon’s events he was ready to relay. Never make a conjecture without a solid basis of understanding first—wasn’t that how it was supposed to work?

“Someone?”

“Someone who might be able to help us with this.” Ian pointed at the computer screen.

Neil’s eyes widened. “A believer?”

“Not a believer so much as a suspect. She was at the scene of the fire yesterday. And today at the rally…well, let’s just say I question her motivations.”

Neil tossed a Hot Pocket crust in his mouth, not even bothering to swallow before talking. “She? So who is this person?”

“You’re not going to believe me if I tell you.”

“Oh, shit. Is it my mom? Because that would be really weird—and she’s probably lying. She’s been on me lately to move out. She might be trying to get you to take me in.”

Ian laughed, but it was short-lived. Shaking his head, he said, “It’s not your mom. Do you remember a girl from high school named Fiona Nelson?”

Neil turned, a grin spreading Grinch-like across his face. “Are you fucking with me? Fiona? Fingerbang Fiona?”

“Neil!”

Ignoring Ian’s warning, Neil went through an array of hand gestures Ian could only assume were meant to simulate the act.

“Don’t,” Ian said, his jaw tense.

Neil grinned wider and moved on to more elaborate movements involving his tongue, pelvis, and, inexplicably, the big toe of his left foot, which was clad in a Birkenstock sandal as old as he was. Ian gripped the arms of the chair.

As he finished, Neil asked, “What are the Corrupted doing with Fingerbang Fiona on their side? Wait—don’t answer that. I’m imagining it right now…”

Ian snapped. With a crash, he was out of the chair and in Neil’s face, gripping the collar of his friend’s worn flannel shirt. “Say that name again,” he said, his voice a low hiss. Neil’s face grew red. “Disrespect her like that again, and we will have issues.”

He let go. Neil slid to the ground in a slump of limbs and oversized jeans.

Neil refused to meet Ian’s eyes as he picked himself up. “You always did have a thing for that girl,” he mumbled.

“
That girl
is none of your business.” Ian paused. That wasn’t exactly true. “…except I think she might be the Fireball.”

The Fireball. The person responsible for all the fires around Ashland lately. First it was a handful of incinerated trees, then the bigger crimes, including a convenience store robbery and one pretty nasty bank job that ended up killing the security guard.

“Fiona as the Fireball? Dude—I’m not gonna lie, that chick’s gotten me through many a sticky situation.” Neil colored and shook his head. “But if she’s the one who’s been hitting up those stores and killing people, I’d swear off Hot Pockets for a year.”

“You’re wrong.” Ian righted his chair but didn’t sit. Adrenaline coursed through him. He couldn’t rid himself of the lingering image of Fiona’s lips. He was a mess. “She’s…different now. More secretive. Elusive, even. Hell, it’s been what—a decade since you saw her last?”

She was different, but also the same. In a very confusing way that set Ian’s mind and body at odds.

Neil shook his head. “Unless she’s sporting a tight red suit of flames, I don’t buy it.”

Ian tossed a folded napkin on the desk. “You will.”

“What’s this?” Neil picked it up carefully.

“It’s got a strand of Fiona’s hair. Run it through the system. If I’m right, we might be looking at undeniable proof that we have one of the Corrupted on our hands.”

“Well fuck me, Ian.” Neil moved toward the prep facilities in the laundry room. “Fiona Nelson, huh? What I wouldn’t give for a chance to light her on fire for once.”

Ian sank into the chair and stared, eyes unfocused, at the screen. “You and me both, Neil,” he muttered under his breath. “You and me both.”