Firebug (6 page)

We heard what sounded like a woman screaming. No matter how many times I heard Ez make that sound, it gave me the willies. But it was a sound that carried well, so we used it as one of our signals.

Lock ran ahead to help him while I stopped at each beanstalk, put my hands on it, and vaporized it back into the ether. By the time I caught up, Lock had the house bound in a cage made of twisted tree limbs, a living chicken coop. Ezra was running around the house's feet, yipping excitedly. Everything is one big game to a fox. Lock was sweating from holding the house in place. Since the rest of my team was occupied, that left me to do the fun part. Venus didn't want a crispy fried-chicken house, so I couldn't burn it down, and Mr. Monticello was clearly not coming out. I buried my exasperation—before I accidentally started a forest fire—and got ready to climb. Lock took my jacket and handed me my warded gloves. I slipped them on and began my ascent.

Mr. Monticello decided to take the express elevator down before I made it to the top. I can't say I blame him. The wet sound he made when he landed will show up in my nightmares for a long time.

I had to burn the clothes when we were done. The smell of charcoal and the eye-watering, acrid reek of chicken poop was never going to come out. I kept the warded gloves. They were too expensive to toss. Lock called Venus, and we had to wait until a recovery team came for the house. It was a long hike back to the car and a longer drive to the fence where Ez had left his clothes. Since he was the least exhausted, Ezra drove while Lock curled up in the back and I napped in the passenger seat. I was really looking forward to a hot shower.

 

 

THE BOYS
dropped me off at home, and I took the longest shower in the history of long showers. Once I was clean and dressed, I sat down for dinner and asked Cade about Ryan's proposed road trip. Cade was less than enthused. Not for the reasons that most people raising a teenage girl would have—Cade trusted me and had no delusions in that arena. We'd always been honest with each other. Lock and Ezra stayed over all the time, and though Cade knew we were just friends, a lot of other parents would have said no. I'd brought that up once, and he'd laughed.

“My parents had that rule, and I've always thought that was funny,” he'd said. “Like teenagers can only have sex at night in someone's house. If you were really dead set on it, I couldn't stop you. It certainly didn't stop me.”

“Ew.” I pretended to gag.

“Your face could freeze like that, you know.”

“Totally worth it.”

He rested his chin in his hand, an amused twist to his lips. “Despite current evidence to the contrary, I prefer to believe that I've raised you right and know where you are at night.” He'd earned a hug for that.

So it wasn't illicit behavior that Cade was worried about. And he certainly wasn't worried about Ryan doing anything harmful toward my person. When your little princess can scorch an entire city block with her mind, you just don't have those kinds of fears. No, Cade had the same worries I'd had.

“Isn't that tempting fate?” he asked. “Might as well strap pork chops to your body and run into the lion's den.” We were eating dinner at home. Cade had cooked, so my steak was tender and well-marinated and sitting next to some tasty roasted root veggies.

I can cook, since I'd been on my own with my mom for years and it wasn't a skill I could live without, but unlike Cade I tended to cook in a very utilitarian fashion. I eat so I don't die, and I can't seem to get beyond that. I created fuel. Cade created a meal. I went for quantity, while he stressed quality. No one would starve in my presence, but I'm not a chef. Cade, though, was a foodie. He liked smelly cheeses and fresh herbs and shuddered at my idea of cooking.

Firebugs have to be careful about two things: calories and potassium levels. We burn through both like mad when we light fires. Both are easy to maintain—eat a lot of bananas and make sure to keep electrolyte supplements handy. But I was seriously getting tired of bananas. There's really only so much you can do with them. When Cade's not around, I eat them plain and bitch
a lot
. When he is around, he bakes them into things, slices them into oatmeal, and sneaks them into desserts. I glanced at the counter. Yup, a banana pie for dessert. I was starting to have an ingrained response to the color yellow. When I saw it, I wanted to vomit and light things on fire.

I sliced into my steak. “I realize that it's Venus's turf, but what am I supposed to tell him? He thinks I go to Boston all the time, so I can't say I don't like the city. Besides, I don't think there are any theaters around there, and it's not as if Venus and her crew are the art house theater types.”

Cade had given up eating for the moment, focusing on the conversation at hand, his fork and knife held loosely in his fists. “Boston isn't
that
big—you might run into her or one of her minions … or some as-yet-unforeseen third misfortune.” With me there always seemed to be an as-yet-unforeseen misfortune around the corner.

I stabbed a chunk of sweet potato with my fork, giving it the eye before I took a bite. Last time we'd had sweet potatoes, Cade had snuck plantains into the dish to get my potassium up.

“No plantains, Rat.”

Says the plantain man. It could be a trap. I brought my glass of milk closer, just in case. I'd chug it if I hit plantain.

“Can you remember the last time I went out and did normal-teen activities? When I went to Boston to do something fun? Not work,
fun
.” I squished an errant chunk of what looked suspiciously like plantain with the tines of my fork.

“That's a turnip,” Cade said, reaching for his wine. “Counterargument: It's not fun if you or your friends are injured at the end of it.”

Oh, the temptation to roll my eyes. “Point, but you could say that about anything. I could walk down the street tomorrow and get hit by a bus. Does that mean I shouldn't walk anywhere?”

“Faulty argument. You're taking something that is extremely likely—Venus discovering you—and comparing it to something very unlikely—getting hit by a bus in a town that does not have a bus system. Try again.”

“I want to do something normal,” I whispered, suddenly tired and overwhelmed by a feeling of hopelessness. “If we went to school together, I'd have pictures of him in my locker. We'd hold hands while we walked down the hallway. I'd ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and then we'd blow it off to go to the movies.” I slumped in my chair. My next argument was going to hit a spot Cade felt bad about—me having to be homeschooled—but I used it anyway. Sometimes I am a grade-A jerk-a-tron. “I don't get to go to school, though. No walking hallways and no locker so covered in photos of us that students gag themselves with their fingers and pretend to vomit when they see it.” I straightened up, suddenly angry. “I have
dreamed
of envy-induced vomit pantomimes, Cade. I want them. I deserve them.”

Cade looked at me over the rims of his glasses. “If you went to high school, you'd be the one pantomiming vomit at the girls who wallpapered their lockers with pictures of their boyfriends. You'd tell them you didn't like the idea of giving over your personhood and identity to the worship of some high school mouth-breather. Then you'd probably ditch class to go get coffee with a college boy in a leather jacket who writes bad poetry and loves Hemingway. If you were going for a cliché, that's what you would go for.”

Gah, Cade knew me so well. It wasn't fair. “So I buy Ryan a leather jacket and we're almost there.” I slumped even farther into my chair. “I don't even like Hemingway,” I grumbled. “And maybe just once I want the normal girl cliché.” I waved him off before he got into his “What is normal?” diatribe. Because it doesn't really matter. No matter what Cade would say next, we both understand that I'll never really know.

Well, I might have been missing out on the American teen experience, but I still got to kiss Ryan's lips, and that was nothing to complain about, let me tell you. There were a few other trade-offs as well. No curfew, a long leash, and I never needed a bonfire to make s'mores. It wasn't all a crap parade.

Cade wiped his mouth with his napkin before straightening the cloth and setting it back in his lap. “I won't lose you just so you can feel like every other girl on the planet. You aren't normal, Ava. You're
special
. Not because of what you can do, but because you're my little girl.”

Ugh, how do you argue with that? This is why I always lost our debates. Cade was one of those guys who could talk about his feelings to no end, while just the mention of anything mushy made me squirm. Sometimes, when we were watching a movie and it got really emotional, I would go to the kitchen for a glass of water, even if I wasn't thirsty. That's how uncomfortable I got. But I wasn't going to fold this time. I steeled myself and brought out the big gun.

“Please. I don't ask for much, and you know it.”

Cade studied me, and I could see him beginning to cave.

“I'll keep my phone on and check in every hour. I'll be careful.” He grimaced and stared at his plate, and I knew that I'd won.

“All right,” he said. “Every hour on the hour. And don't just be careful, Rat. Be smart.”

I clapped my hands. “I will,” I said. We spent the rest of the meal discussing what we were reading and changes we were thinking about making to the bookstore. Happy thoughts. If only I were Peter Pan and happy thoughts were enough to help me fly away from the Coterie. Lock would have made an excellent Tinker Bell.

After dishes were washed and put away, we got into our pajamas and Cade made popcorn on the stove. It was movie night, and it was Cade's turn to pick. He used his turns to educate me, so the film was usually black and white—occasionally colorized—but always good.

I curled up in my favorite spot on the couch and snuggled deep down into an afghan. Cade brought me my own bowl of popcorn so I didn't steal all of his—not that it stopped me poaching from his bowl anyway—and we settled in for that night's selection,
Key Largo.
Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall … I mean, what's not to love? All in all it was a pleasant evening, and I'm glad, because my evenings were about to get a whole lot more uncomfortable.

 

 

I DON'T
know why I thought Ryan and I would be going by ourselves. When Friday night rolled around, I found myself squeezed into a Volvo with Brittany and her latest conquest. After a few minutes of stunted conversation, I fervently wished she'd remove his tags and release him back into the wild. Maybe if I'd tried harder we'd have had
loads
to discuss. Like when he was talking about Robbie's bitchin' party last week, I could have snuck in some charming anecdotes about how I burn creatures to death for a living.

The closest specimen in my life of what normal teen behavior might look like is Sylvie, and she likes
kaiju
movie marathons and cosplaying as obscure anime characters. I'm fairly sure she mastered Elvish and Klingon before she got her braces on, and she likes to read old chemistry books that come into the store. I'm afraid that if we were to leave her alone in the shop too long with normal household cleaners, she'd build a bomb. Or a spaceship. Or Godzilla. Any of those options seem equally likely. I might not know normal, but I'm certain that Sylvie is not the best barometer for it. Which just made Ryan's friends that much more perplexing. Surely they couldn't all be jerks, right?

“Interesting ensemble,” Brittany said when I climbed in the car, her tone slow and lazy. “I hear hobo chic is really in this year. Wherever did you get such a lovely … shirt?”

She made the last word a question, obviously pointing out to the others that my shirt was of dubious origin and quality. I did most of my shopping at thrift stores, something Brittany would obviously never do. But my clothes got scorched, ripped, scuffed, and stained on a regular basis because of my job. It wasn't worth buying new stuff, especially since Cade was footing the bill.

What I wouldn't give to be able to tell Brittany about the chicken house. Instead I had to smile and tell her I got my clothes at the thrift store. She smirked as if she'd scored a major point somehow. Like Ryan gave a crap where my clothes came from. “Besides, I just read an article saying something like eighty percent of designer clothing is made by children in sweatshops. Small fingers make tiny stitches.” She frowned at me, and I saw her unconsciously reach out and trace the seam on her jacket. I had no idea if what I'd just said was remotely true, but she didn't know that. I nodded sagely at her—a sort of
trust me
expression on my face. She looked away first.

Ryan turned his head so she wouldn't see his grin. “Play nice,” he said when he got his expression back under control. “Don't make me turn this car around.”

I was glad when Ryan cranked the music up too loud for any of us to try to talk. Brittany started sucking her boyfriend's face at some point, and after that I kept an eye on the scenery outside the window, thankful for the pounding music that most likely drowned out any slurping noises that might accompany the happy couple. I never thought I would be grateful to have my ears assaulted by uninspired whiny alterna-pop, so already the evening was bringing about more surprises than I cared for.

We stopped to get gas halfway through our drive.

“Does anyone want anything?” I asked, because that was how Cade had raised me, even though Brittany didn't deserve my good manners.

“Just a bottle of water. A girl's got to watch her figure,” she replied, not-so-subtly eyeing my waistline.

“With that comment alone, you've set feminism back twenty years. Well done, Brittany.” I needed to get away from the gas pumps before anything unfortunate happened.