by Lish McBride
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.
Ezra looked at his bacon and then stared at me. Ez likes his bacon hot, and crispier than Cade cooks it. I flicked my fingers and made it happen, a small spark wending its way toward the table.
Cade pinched it with wet fingers. “She’s not a microwave,” he said, but he was scrutinizing me.
“Why am I in trouble? And how is this any different from sugaring?” This argument was so old, it had grooves in it.
“Sugaring works on your endurance, and you benefit from the making of it. What does cooking Ezra’s bacon teach you?”
“That Ezra likes his pork products crispy?”
“He just doesn’t want people to use you. And I agree, Ava,” Ezra said around a mouthful of bacon. “Except when it comes to me. It’s not using if the person is your friend.”
Cade shot him a withering look, one I knew well. It was your friends who you had to watch the closest.
“When are you taking off?” I asked.
Cade put the last dish in the rack and let the water drain out of the sink. “In a few minutes. I want to get to the shop early and do some rearranging.”
“I can be ready in five,” I said.
He wiped what was left of the suds I’d forgotten off my nose. “No, you’ll eat some breakfast and finish your coffee, and I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Besides,” Duncan added, “evicting Ezra in under five minutes is hardly humane.”
Ezra groaned. “I can’t imagine how anything this morning could get less humane. It’s so bright in here. Why do you people need so much light? It’s freakish and unnatural.”
“That’s the sun, Ezra.” Lock said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’m told it comes up every morning.”
“Well, it’s trying to kill me. Someone do something.”
Cade fished an old pair of sunglasses out of a drawer and handed them to Ezra, who put them on immediately. He looked ridiculous, but at least he stopped complaining.
I finished drying the dishes and hung up the towel neatly. I knew better than to try to argue with Cade about going in to work. We both knew I’d split the difference and show up in thirty minutes anyway. “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” I said, surrendering.
Cade put a plate down in front of me—eggs, bacon, home fries, biscuits, a banana, and half a grapefruit. I ignored the grapefruit and started buttering biscuits. I scowled at the banana. Lock took the other half of the grapefruit to go with his coffee, because he’s a damn hippie.
Duncan nudged a pot of jam closer to me. “To go with your butter,” he said.
I slathered my biscuit with jam. “Do you hear that cheering? That’s all the cholesterol in my arteries welcoming their new friends, butter and sugar. Yaaay, new friends.”
Cade joined us at the table. “Don’t ignore your banana, please, Ava. And thank Duncan for the eggs and jam—he brought them over for us this morning.”
“Thank you, Duncan,” I chorused with Lock, through my mouth was full of biscuit. I threw Cade a “sorry” before he could lecture me about table manners.
Duncan was always stopping by and bringing us things. When he went fishing, we got fish. When he made jam, he always brought us a jar. He also had a ton of chickens, so sometimes we got eggs. Duncan was one of the few people I ever saw in our kitchen. Cade didn’t have any family that I knew of, except for parents that he didn’t get along with, and because of me we didn’t really have any friends.
My mom and I were on the run all the time I was growing up, and even though it put Cade in danger, sometimes my mom would sneak back home. It was like staying away was a Herculean effort for her; she couldn’t help running out of fuel, and the only way to fill up was to come home.
Even at the age of five I knew that home was where Cade was. That time, we’d snuck home for the holidays and ended up snowed in for the whole week. For one week my mom looked happy and I was totally spoiled. I ate candy and read books and drank homemade cider. Cade got me new pajamas and showed me how to string popcorn and cranberries for the tree. I’d never had my own Christmas tree before. Cade didn’t own any ornaments, so we covered it in popcorn chains and paper snowflakes. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Duncan came over, and I asked him if he was related to Santa, because they looked alike, and he told me yes. Then he handed me a present, the bow a big, red ribbon. I tore into it.
Inside the box were four carved animals. The biggest was the pony, and it stood five inches high. Then a dog, a cat, and a tiny wooden bird the size of Duncan’s thumb. They looked so real, I thought any second one of them would breathe. Duncan sat cross-legged with me on the floor, and then he gave each one a little tap. The tiny wooden figures sprang to life and lined up, biggest to smallest. Duncan had me clap, giving them a marching beat, and then the creatures pranced, heads high, and paraded through the house. It was magic. Duncan was magic. When the parade ended, the figures froze in midprance. I squealed and made him do it a
gain and again.
I fell asleep that day curled up in Duncan’s lap, the wooden creatures held in a death grip in my little fists. I’d had to leave them behind at the end of the week and I tried not to cry, because I knew it would make my mom even sadder, but I couldn’t help it.
Cade kept them for me. They’re on a shelf in my room, and every once in a while I want to ask Duncan to make them dance, but I never do. I’m afraid that if I see them parade again, they’ll lose their magic. Irrational, but there you go.
Duncan watched me devour my breakfast, a thoughtful look on his face. “Rough job last night?”
I nodded—an answer to his question and a cue that I didn’t want to talk about it.
“They’re all rough,” Lock said.
Duncan didn’t push for more detail. He just drank his coffee, sympathy muddying his eyes. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I excused myself and went to take a shower.
Lock made sure I finished my banana first.
BROKEN SPINES was my home away from home, and what I considered my real job. It wasn’t huge, but it was packed to the gills with paperbacks, comfy chairs, and a shop cat named Horatio. We couldn’t afford to get the store warded yet, so I had to be extra careful about losing my temper at work. In the meantime, we’d managed to get the chairs, curtains, floors, and walls sprayed down with the same stuff we used on the furniture at home. Basically, everything except Horatio and the books were covered.
Cade has a thing for taking in strays, be they feline or firebug. We found Horatio one morning, sick and half-starved outside the shop. We rushed him to the vet and, five hundred dollars later, we had a furry little tenant. Horatio keeps the mice down (mice are death to a used bookshop) and the fur up—one of my jobs is de-hairing the couches. Everyone thinks Cade named the cat after Horatio Hornblower, but he’s really named after the character from Hamlet. In the play, Horatio lived to tell the tale. So did our cat. He’s a survivor. Like me.
He greeted me with a purr when I walked into the store, his head stretched out for a scratch, but I was far from his favorite. At first he’d seen me as a competitor for Cade’s attentions. I’d had to bribe him for weeks with kitty treats and catnip before he relented and decided to honor me with his approval. In Horatio’s mind he was royalty and I was the lucky peasant who got to feed him. Huzzah.
I began dusting and organizing before opening the doors to the public. I heard Cade in the back, cleaning up a bunch of used hardcovers. I was not allowed near him during this process. He used lighter fluid—it’s the best thing to remove sticky residue from old books—so … not a good place for me to be. You could say that about the entire store, I guess. Cade thought it was good for me to work there, though—practice in restraint and patience. Personally, I thought it was asking for trouble, but I liked my job, so I kept my mouth shut.
The bookstore was quiet; most of the people were friendly or left you alone, and I got to read a lot. Oddly enough, it held some similarities with my Coterie job, with the solitude and people-leaving-me-alone thing, but I hardly ever had to kill anyone at the bookstore. At least, not yet.
As I finished the tidying, the bell rang and I looked up to see Ryan sauntering over to me.
“Think I can take my favorite girl to lunch?”
“Favorite implies that there are others.”
“My nest of love slaves is a mighty one, but you hold the spotlight.”
“You’re so gross.”
He tossed me a small velvet box. I opened it and was greeted with earrings—three silver stars on a fine chain dangled from each post, like they were shooting through space.
“Thought they might go with that necklace you always wear.”
I realized that my hand had unconsciously gone to the chain around my neck. A simple silver chain with an interlocking heart and star dangling from it. A gift from Cade to my mom, and all I had left of her.
“I love it. How did you—” My eyes narrowed. “You did pay for these, right?”
He leaned on the counter and grinned. “You ask so many questions. Just say thank you.” When I kept glaring, his smile faltered a bit. “I paid for them, okay? Dearly. Can you just put them on now? For me?” He pushed an errant curl behind my ear.
I put them in, watching Ryan the whole time. He seemed happy that I was wearing his gift, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he also seemed a little sad about it. Maybe he’d bought them for someone else originally? An ex? Stole them from his mom?
I tucked the same lock of hair that Ryan had just straightened behind my ear again and found paper. He’d snuck an origami flower behind my ear without me catching on. I could see that it had been refolded a few times, and it was a little lopsided. He’d obviously worked hard at it, and it was nice to see Ryan not be perfect. I grinned at him in thanks. It was easy to grin at Ryan. “Earrings and a flower? What did you do? Make out with a nun? Because that is some guilt you must be working off.”
He ignored me and leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on my lips. “They look great. Now, lunch?”
“I’ll ask Cade.”
As I wound my way into the back room, I thought about how odd it was to get a present from a boyfriend. I’d never really had a boyfriend before. I barely had friends. Cade, Lock, Ezra, and Duncan, sure—but Cade is more family than friend, and Lock, Ezra, and Duncan fall into the same category as far as I’m concerned. Of course, Cade is always at the top of the list because he feeds me on a regular basis.
And I guess Sylvie is a friend, in some respects, though I have to keep a lot from her. She doesn’t know there’s anything different about me, Lock, and Ezra. It’s safer that way.
Ryan is not my friend. We go on dates, we hold hands, and we’ve steamed up our fair share of car windows, but I wouldn’t list him as my buddy. We would never sit in our pajamas and watch movies or get BFF bracelets. You can’t be true friends with someone when you’re lying to them all the time, not really. And I was one big walking secret. Our whole relationship was like a game to see how many times I could play the Sick Grandma card to cancel on a date when I was really out doing Venus’s dirty work.
My mom had taught me what it meant to love a firebug. Everything was fine as long as you kept it light. No delving into major relationships. Avoid all complications, especially the pitter-patter of little feet. Once my mom figured out she was pregnant, she was vapor. If the Coterie found out, they’d stake their claim on me. Best-case scenario, I would be a firebug and forced to work for the Coterie my entire life. Worst case, I was human and a bargaining chip, a walking weakness to be used against my mother. Mom had already spent most of her young life working for the Coterie. Working for Venus. One unplanned pregnancy was all it took for her to break free—the idea of me having to suffer the same fate was too much. So she shook her tail feathers and made for the hills.
But it wasn’t just for me. My mother had worried that if I took after her, Venus would make life hell for my dad, too, forcing him to become a breeder. Venus the undead mafia kingpin (or should that be queenpin?) would own him.
The firebug gene is recessive. So to produce a firebug, both parents need to carry the gene. My dad turned out to be a carrier—he had the gene but couldn’t actually produce fire. Plain ol’ human. That much my mom had told me. She hadn’t known if he was a carrier or not, but she couldn’t take the chance of waiting around to find out. I think if I had been born human, she would have left me with my dad so he could raise me. She wouldn’t have been able to keep me or let the Coterie know I was her daughter—so she would have walked away. I have no doubt. Anything to protect the ones she loved.
It’s easier if you look at it like it’s a disease. My mom was full-blown, while my father had the potential lying dormant inside his DNA. If they’d had more kids, some could have been firebugs, some could have been carriers, and some might have been just human. Normal.
Lucky me, I won the genetic crapshoot. Full-blown, just like my mom. That’s one reason that we’re so rare: eve
n if both parents possess the gene, the chances that their offspring would be firebugs aren’t very high. The other reason we’re rare is that we don’t seem to have a very long life expectancy. We have the Coterie to thank for that, or groups like them. Poachers. The Coterie wanted us because they wanted to use us to their own ends. Living weapons. Mom told me Hitler tried his damnedest to track down our kind as weapons for the Third Reich. Too bad Owen wasn’t alive then. Ol’ Tiny Mustache would have loved him. Peas in a psychotic mass-murdering pod, those two.
So Venus would have looked at a pair that had already proved to breed firebugs as Christmas in July. She could have built her own personal army out of us, breeding my parents like cattle. My mom couldn’t wait around to find out if I was normal or not. So she did the impossible—she fled the Coterie. Which meant we had to be on the run, living under the radar. Not just for a little while, but forever.
I FOUND Cade seated at a desk, bent over an old leather-bound hardcover, running a finger up the spine to see how it was faring.
“Can I go to lunch?”
“With Sylvie, or the delinquent?”
“Right, because as an assassin, I should really watch who I’m seen with. Wouldn’t want to impugn my own reputation.” He grunted and I rolled my eyes, both of us winning the blue ribbon for maturity. “Besides, no one has ever proved that he’s a delinquent.”
Cade looked up from the book and stared at me over his glasses. “Don’t you think it’s a bad sign that your best argument for your beau is that nothing has been proved in court?”
“Don’t you think open disapproval is the best way to drive me into the arms of the aforementioned beau? I mean, really, this is textbook stuff when dealing with a rebellious teenager, Cade.”
He put the book down and leaned his elbows onto his knees. “You don’t get to be textbook, Rat. I wish you could. I wish that boy were the least of your worries. You have to be more careful than most, and that includes who you date.”
“Exactly. It’s a date, Cade. Not a betrothal. You don’t have to start thinking of how many chickens and goats I’m worth yet.”