Wildfire Griffin (Fire & Rescue Shifters: Wildfire Crew Book 1)

by Zoe Chant

  “They’ll welcome you with open arms.” Rory rescued her from a teetering stack of cans, piling them into the crook of his elbow. He tossed one to Fenrir, who caught it neatly in his jaws. “Especially if you come bearing beans.”

  Grabbed her biggest pot, she followed them out. The sky was still streaked with the last glow of sunset, but night was gathering in the forest. The rising moon smiled down, veiled and reddish behind the thin haze of smoke left over from the fire.

  “Running up and down these stairs multiple times a day must keep you fit.” Rory was a broad-shouldered silhouette ahead of her, picking his way cautiously down. “You have to be tough to live up here all alone. You do a lot of hiking?”

  “Yep.” She didn’t even need to hold the handrail; every step was familiar under her boots. “It’s part of the job, checking on the area, keeping paths clear. It’s my favorite part, actually. I like being in the forest better than being above it.”

  Moonlight silvered Rory’s profile as he glanced back at her. “Why is that?”

  She hesitated, struggling to put the feeling into words. “Because…on the ground, I’m part of things. In the dirt. When I’m in the lookout, I’m sealed off. Separated. Locked away behind glass walls.”

  “A princess in a tower,” Rory said, sounding more thoughtful than teasing. “Like in a fairytale.”

  She snorted. “I’m no princess.”

  Rory stopped, turning round. Standing a step below her, he was precisely at her eye level.

  His voice was a deep and soft as the night. “But you might be in a fairytale.”

  Close as he was, it was dark enough that she couldn’t make out anything of his expression; just the line of his forehead, the curve of his lips. His eyes were hidden in shadow. It was easier to be this close to him when she didn’t need to fear drowning in their amber-gold depths.

  She breathed in the faintest whisper-trace of his scent; warm and rich, nutmeg and smoke. If she leaned just a little closer—

  Fenrir barked from the bottom of the stairs, sharp and impatient. They both jumped, jerking apart.

  “Right.” Rory let out a rueful laugh, shaking his head as he turned away. “Feed the dog first. Come on, they’re this way.”

  The firefighters had set up camp a little way from their vehicle, halfway between the lookout tower and the fireline. They’d dragged a couple of logs cut from the forest to make seats around a small campfire.

  An unpleasant jolt went through Edith’s stomach at the sight of the flickering orange glow. After the terror of the blaze earlier, even this tame, homely fire seemed suddenly unsafe. She froze in the shadows.

  “It’s okay, Edith,” Rory murmured, stopping as well. “No rush. Take your time.”

  She was grateful he seemed to understand the reason for her hesitation. She made herself look at the dancing flames, battling down the irrational sense of fear.

  The other firefighters didn’t seem to have noticed her hovering on the edge of their circle. They were all fully occupied ripping open self-heating packets of military rations. Judging from the grumbling, Rory hadn’t been kidding about it not being gourmet cuisine.

  “I’m not sure whether I should eat this or give it a decent funeral.” The white-haired paramedic—Wystan, she remembered—held up an unidentifiable brown patty. “What is this thing?”

  The female firefighter prodded at her own. “I think it’s a lightly seasoned hockey puck.”

  “Apparently it’s meant to be brisket,” said a huge black man, squinting at a discarded wrapper. “If this ever came out of a cow, it was from the back end. How can you eat this, Cal?”

  The final firefighter—a lean, red-headed man with the brooding good looks of a movie star—didn’t pause. Alone amongst the group, he was forking up his meal in steady, regular bites. “It’s food.”

  “That’s debatable.” Wystan sighed, eying his plate without enthusiasm. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing else.”

  It was as good a cue as she could ask for. Edith swallowed, steeling herself.

  “I have beans,” she volunteered, stepping into the light.

  The large black man promptly tossed his prepackaged meal over his shoulder. He slid to his knees in front of her, arms upraised as if in supplication.

  “Lo, a goddess has descended from on high to join us,” he declared. He had an melodic, lilting accent, as if his native language was something tonal like Mandarin or Cantonese. “Deliver us from this terrible, terrible food, o merciful one. Bestow upon us your blessed beans.”

  Edith blinked at him.

  “Yes.” Rory sighed from behind her. “That’s the expression people usually get when they meet Joe.”

  “I’m afraid he’s always like this,” Wystan added. “We apologize in advance.”

  “There is nothing wrong,” Joe said with dignity, getting to his feet and brushing dirt off his knees, “with injecting life with a little pizzazz.”

  The female firefighter snorted. “There’s nothing little about you, Joe.”

  Joe’s cocky grin widened. “That’s what all the ladies say.”

  “Yes,” Edith said, staring up at the towering firefighter. The top of her head barely came to the middle of his chest. “I can see why.”

  Across the fire, Wystan choked on a bite of food. Too late, Edith realized the innuendo. At least she’d been looking up rather than down.

  Joe laughed, loose and easy. “I like you. And not just for your beans. Speaking of which, if you hand them over, I shall concoct for you a creation that will make you feel like angels are dancing on your tongue. May I?”

  Edith found herself grinning back at him. Underneath all those flowery words was a simple directness: I like you. Her life would be a lot more straightforward if everyone just came out and spoke their feelings like that.

  “Here you go,” she said, passing the firefighter the pot. “But I’m afraid they really are just plain beans.”

  “Not for long.” Joe reached into his pocket, pulling out a small bundle with a flourish. “Let’s see…Tabasco, smoked paprika, a little garlic salt…”

  Wystan raised his eyebrows. “You brought culinary spices to a wildfire?”

  “Always be prepared,” Joe replied cheerfully, busy opening cans.

  The female firefighter shook her head. “You are prepared for some weirdly specific situations.” She turned to Edith, giving her a casual wave. “I’m Blaise, by the way. And tall, red-headed, and glowering over there is Callum.”

  The final firefighter made a small nod of acknowledgement, not pausing in his steady, mechanical consumption of his ration.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Blaise said to Edith. “Cal’s not really one for small talk.”

  In that case, they were going to get along just fine. Edith was already feeling uncomfortable, trying to keep track of so many faces and voices. She smiled nervously round at all of them, her tongue thick and awkward in her mouth.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  “It’s all right, Edith. They won’t bite.” Rory sat down on a spare log, patting the space next to him. “Come take a seat.”

  The log was big enough for two, but she’d be hip-to-hip with him. There was no way she could make polite conversation with the warmth of his thigh against hers.

  She went to the other side of the fire instead, where Callum was sitting. The firefighter shot her a quick, sharp glance as she hesitantly approached.

  “Um. Do you mind if I join you?” she asked, gesturing at the spare space beside him.

  Callum considered her coolly. Most people wriggled their faces all the time in a bewildering kaleidoscope of motion, but his was as still as a mountain pond. Edith found his lack of expression rather soothing.

  “I don’t mind,” he said, his gaze flickering to the other side of the fire.

  A rather awkward silence fell. Edith gingerly perched on the rough bark as far away as she could get from him, trying not to intrude on his personal
space, and stared at her hands. As long as she watched them, she could stop them from twitching.

  Wystan cleared his throat. “So, um. Have you been a fire watcher long?”

  “A few years now,” she said, grateful for the conversational lifeline. “Only during the summer, of course. The lookout towers open at the start of fire season.”

  Blaise cocked an eyebrow at her. “It’s not fire season yet. Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere so early?”

  “I always come up here as early as I can. Fire watching isn’t the best paid career. I can’t afford my own place, so off-season I stay with my parents down in San Francisco. They’re great, and I love them, but…” She scrunched up her nose, searching for the right words. “They can’t help treating me like a child. In their eyes, I’m always going to be the hapless kid who can’t be trusted to know what’s best for her, you know?”

  “Only too well,” Joe sighed, not looking up from the beans.

  Wystan let out a rueful chuckle. “All of us are somewhat escaping from our families too.” He gestured around the circle. “We grew up together. Firefighting rather runs in the blood—our fathers all work together on an engine crew back in England. We had to move five thousand miles just to get out from under their shadows.”

  “They’re that famous?” she asked.

  There was a pause. All the hotshot crew exchanged glances with each other, as though having a silent, private debate.

  “More like…legendary,” Rory said at last. “In certain circles, at least.”

  She was struck again by how different his accent was from Wystan and Blaise. “You don’t sound like you come from England.”

  “Och aye, lassie, ye must ken my manner o’ speakin’,” he said, exaggerating his burr to ludicrous extreme. “Half Scottish, half American. My father’s side of the family are all true-blood Highlanders. They made it their mission to make sure I didn’t end up sounding like a ‘soft southerner’ despite growing up in England. Left me with an accent that tends to wander around a bit.”

  “I like your voice,” she assured him. “It’s big and warm and furry.”

  Blaise broke into a coughing fit. Wystan covered his mouth with his hand. Too late, her learned social filter kicked in.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “That was a weird thing to say.”

  The firelight flickered over Rory’s crooked smile. “No. It wasn’t.”

  In the warm orange light, his eyes almost seemed to glow. She was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. If she stared too long, she would burn up.

  She jerked her gaze away, turning to Joe instead. “I don’t recognize your accent either. Where are you from?”

  “Mid-Atlantic,” he replied, not entirely helpfully. Before she could ask what he meant, he handed her a steaming bowl. “Now, taste and tell me if this needs more chili.”

  Edith obediently took a bite.

  “It does not,” she gasped, when she could speak again, “need more chili.”

  Wystan, who had just tasted his own bowl, spluttered. “Good grief. I thought you said this would be like angels dancing on our tongues, Joe?”

  Joe pursed his lips, contemplating his creation. “Very large angels. In stilettos.”

  “Actually,” Blaise said around her spoon, “I think it’s pretty good.”

  Edith cautiously tried a smaller, more respectful mouthful. After you got over being slapped in the sinuses by a wave of heat, the beans did actually taste good—complex and warming, with a deep, smoky flavor.

  “Wow.” She smiled at Joe. “You’ll have to teach me your secret. Canned food gets kind of monotonous when you’re eating it all summer.”

  “You aren’t going to be here this summer though, are you?” Rory hadn’t touched his own food. “Not with the tower equipment broken.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “How did you know that?”

  Fenrir, who had his muzzle firmly planted in a large bowl of beans, made a muffled noise.

  “Uh, just seemed obvious,” Rory said. “I mean, since you had your radio dismantled. I’m guessing there’s not going to be work for you here. What are you going to do?”

  The beans suddenly seemed tasteless. She mashed them around with her spoon, all appetite lost.

  “I’ll…I’ll find something,” she said, trying to paste a smile onto her face.

  “Hmmm.” Rory leaned his elbows on his knees, watching her through the campfire with odd intensity. “Can I see your Red Card?”

  She automatically reached for her wallet—then her brain caught up with her ears. The Red Card was the wildland firefighter equivalent of a driving license. It literally was a red card, printed with a record of training and qualifications that showed what roles you were certified to perform. No one was allowed to work on a fire without one.

  Every year, she promised herself that she would let her qualifications lapse. Every year, she found herself filling in the forms and taking the required refresher course at a fire academy. All her identity had been bound up in that red slip of card for so long, not to have one would have felt like amputating a limb. Even now it lurked in her wallet, a scarlet reminder of failure.

  She swallowed hard. “How did you know I was carded?”

  “Like I said, no one cuts line like that without training.” He held out his hand. “Please?”

  She would have claimed not to have it on her, but he’d already seen her reach for her back pocket. Reluctantly, she dug out the red slip.

  Callum plucked it out of her hand before she could get up to take it to Rory. He unfolded it, quickly scanning the contents. His auburn eyebrows shot upward.

  “Well?” Rory asked him.

  Edith’s face burned as Callum gave her a long, considering look. Without a word, he leaned over to pass her card to Wystan. He let out a low whistle as he too read her record.

  “My word,” the paramedic said, handing the card along to Blaise. “Talk about fate.”

  “No such thing,” Blaise replied as she took it. She paused, her gaze flicking over the card, and her expression changed. “Okay, that’s nearly enough to get even me to believe in destiny.”

  Edith pinned her hands between her knees. “What are you all talking about?”

  “You,” Blaise said cryptically. She handed the card to Rory. “All right, you win. Don’t rub it in.”

  “Win what?” Edith stared round at them all. “What’s going on?”

  Rory’s face broke into that broad, boyish grin again, wider than ever, as he read down the list. “Type 2 Firefighter certified, Type 1 Firefighter provisional, Basic Feller provisional…this is a hell of a lot more than ‘a little training,’ Edith. Why on earth are you just a fire watcher?”

  She stared at the dirt between her boots, hands gripping each other. For a moment, she was back at another campfire…in the circle but apart, silent and shaking as cruel laughter cut through her…

  Something cold and wet nudged her wrist. Edith pulled herself back into the present, to find Fenrir’s copper eyes fixed on hers. The enormous dog rested his head on her knee with a quiet, concerned whine.

  She stroked his fur, drawing comfort from his simple animal presence. “Fire watching suits my strengths. Wildland firefighting… didn’t work out.”

  Callum stood up abruptly. For a sickening, lurching moment, she thought that he was drawing away in disgust, repelled by her failure—but he stepped aside, revealing Rory. Without exchanging so much as a glance, the two men changed places, as synchronized as ballet dancers.

  Rory sank down onto the log next to her. She didn’t dare look at him, but she could feel his body heat against her side.

  “Why didn’t it work out?” Rory asked quietly.

  She concentrated on Fenrir, working tangles out of his thick black ruff. “I got the basic Type 2 qualification easily—that was just classroom training. But then… I couldn’t get a job. I tried and tried, but the few times I got an interview, they told me I didn’t have enough
qualifications.”

  She wished that those crew superintendents had just come straight-out and said it: We don’t want someone like you. It would have saved her years of humiliation and heartbreak.

  She swallowed the pain in her throat. “I took them literally. I thought that if I got the advanced qualifications, the Type 1 certification and the chainsaw handling, then they’d have to give me a job. So I searched and searched until I finally found a crew willing to take me on as a trainee. They were dubious about it, but there had been some kind of publicity stink about a lack of diversity in the local fire services, so they agreed to try me out. But they let me go before I even got to work a real fire. I couldn’t do the job. I didn’t fit on the team.”

  Blaise muttered a vile swearword. “Let me guess. Was this team all men, by any chance?”

  “They were, but that wasn’t the problem.” She took a deep breath. “I was the problem.”

  Her fingers twisted in Fenrir’s fur. The big black dog didn’t flinch. He just leaned into her hand, silently supportive.

  I’m autistic.

  She tried to shape the words, but they hooked into her throat and refused to come out. She couldn’t bear to have them look at her like her old crew had done, like some kind of alien inexplicably beamed into their midst. Or, even worse, with the kind, humiliating pity of her own parents. As if she wasn’t really a whole person. As if she was broken.

  “Bullshit,” Rory said.

  Her whole body jerked, startled by his ferocity. Before she could stop herself, she looked into his eyes. They blazed molten gold, brighter than wildfire, filled with fury.

  Not directed at her… but for her.

  “You are not the problem.” His Scottish burr had morphed into a feral growl, on the verge of a snarl. “Whoever told you that was a lying asswipe, and he’d better pray I never catch up with him. You’re not only competent, you’re exceptional. Just look at that line you cut, all on your own.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I could only do that because I was on my own. I—I don’t work well with others. In drills, when we practiced, I would just freeze up.”