Baptism of Fire (Playing With Hellfire Book 1)

by Jessie Thomas

  “Seriously, neither of you are bothered by this? We’re out here, deep in this crap, while she gets to watch this dumpster fire from the sidelines?”

  “It’s not like that,” Javier added. “We’re not Jodi’s pawns. Last thing she’d ever want is for any of us to get killed. Not while she’s the one making decisions. Trust me.”

  “She’s awfully avoidant about leading the charge, you know, from the streets where the real danger is. It’s irritating.”

  Gemma had a point. I grimaced. “I know she’s a busy woman,” I said, “and I know she said she likes working behind the scenes, but I have to agree with Gemma on this one. She could’ve gone undercover with us.”

  Javier caught my eye for a millisecond over Gemma’s head. “She has her reasons,” he insisted. “Doesn’t talk about ‘em much. Survivor’s guilt’ll do that to you.”

  “Okay, fine. I know we’ve probably all been through this city’s Hell, I’m not a complete heartless bitch,” Gemma relented. “But no offense or anything, her attitude is a real mood killer. At least Zahira knows how to inject a little levity now and then.”

  Javier’s serious expression melted into a grin. “That why you like getting cuffed by the PCU?”

  Their conversation faded off, my ears left ringing.

  I’d never asked Jodi how she’d survived.

  I’d never gotten the answer to what happened from Aunt Meg, who hadn’t wanted to open old wounds and burden me with them.

  The overwhelming barrage of heartache that I’d been holding off for days now threatened to strafe my insides until they were twisted and wound with barbed wire. That tight, closed-off feeling that my lungs were shriveling and my throat was caving in started to creep up on me again. I dug my fingernails into the heels of my palms, my fisted hands clammy and trembling from the sudden flood of anxiety. Despite the balmy temperature, it left me shivering.

  Breathing through my nose, I zeroed in on the smallest details around us—the jingle of coins falling out of someone’s grasp and onto the cobblestones, the luminous paint of a nearby mural in hues of neon, the scent of dark chocolate and hazelnut and cinnamon from a dessert bar with its windows thrown wide open. To keep myself grounded, and shake off the urge to escape, to scream, to sink to my knees in the middle of the street and not get up again. Before the task became too much and the anxiety and grief claimed me for its own.

  My nails bit down into my skin. Pull yourself together. Get a fucking grip.

  I bulldozed my emotions into a haphazard pile in the furthest, darkest corner where I couldn’t easily reach them, ordering them to stay put. I didn’t know how long I had until they disobeyed, until I didn’t have the strength to outrun them anymore. The incendiary’s hollow eyes, alight with a homicidal inferno, flashed across my mind. I couldn’t shake him. He was there at the forefront of my worst thoughts, sifting through Moretti’s ashes.

  We turned down a cobblestone lane off one of the main arteries of The Raze. A wrought-iron gate, gold trickling down from its spikes, welcomed visitors to one of the most notorious parts of the city. The wrought-iron arch over the street bore an infamous message, a familiar warning: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE. Ornate bronze castings of devils and demons stood guard. They looked like the myths of old; wicked faces and gnarled claws, leathery wings and forked tongues.

  Did the demons who walked among us now look like they did, once? Is that what Moretti’s killer was hiding under that skeletal face?

  I shivered.

  I’d already been well aware that Hell’s Gate was the epicenter of Perdition Falls’ social scene. I had spent my fair share of time in its clubs and bars, blowing off steam during academy training and the early days of my firefighting career. There had always been whispers; illicit dealings and criminal activity going on in the dark, though you learned quickly to look the other way if you weren’t seeking it out. What I hadn’t known was that beneath the alluring veneer of neon, the seedy underbelly was ruled by the tug-of-war between incendiaries and pyromancers.

  The street was so narrow that lines of Edison bulbs created a canopy overhead, strung from the end of one rooftop to another, drenching the rickety cobblestones in golden light. There was only so much room to move freely, the crowds spilling over into the street like an eternal block party. Gemma was nearly swallowed by the horde twice, her petite frame navigating a path through the tightly-packed bodies. Even if she had to use a sharp jab to get by once and a while.

  “This way,” Gemma called.

  Javier cupped the back of my elbow, gently steering me from the path of a drunk tourist who’d been inches away from stepping on my foot and sloshing his drink everywhere.

  “I’m not made for this—this undercover shit,” he said, leaning close, his breath ghosting along the shell of my ear. The cloying scent of his cologne blossomed again when I thought it had finally faded. “I don’t like the thought of cozying up to these bastards.”

  “I don’t, either,” I replied. “But Gemma knows what she’s doing.”

  His hand hadn’t left my elbow. “I trust her,” he said. “It’s them I have a problem with.”

  “Yeah, I know. They don’t strike me as the most trustworthy species, either,” I said. “But we don’t have any other bright ideas, so we’re stuck with this one.”

  “We’ll see how that works out for us.” His fingers disappeared from my elbow, though the imprint of his warmth through the thin, billowing fabric of my blouse stayed behind.

  Gemma sidled up to the muscle standing guard at the door of an upscale lounge.

  FIREBRAND. The scarlet letters above the front doors jutted out from the building’s obsidian stonework, the bold script glowing orange around the edges. Hell’s Gate really couldn’t help itself when it came to naming literally anything, so that’s why most of the clubs and bars perpetuated the same infernal motif.

  All part of the charm.

  The bouncer’s gruff demeanor seemed to relax when he caught sight of Gemma, the hard line of his brow softening, his square jaw losing some of its carved grit. Incendiary power swirled around him like a quiet rage. Though his level of power was intimidating enough to do his job, it didn’t hold nearly the same strength as the murderer we were looking for. They exchanged words, a couple of folded bills passing discretely from Gemma’s palm to the breast pocket of his jacket. She must’ve known him by name because he knew hers.

  “They’re with me.”

  She gestured to us to follow her with a quick motion of her fingers. Once the bouncer unlocked the door, we stepped into a lavish bar that looked too swanky for my pay grade. I had a horrible, split-second fear that these people would know we were outsiders. I probably couldn’t even pay to breathe the air in this place.

  It wasn’t as crowded as the street, likely due to its elite clientele and exclusive guest list that Gemma somehow had the connections to bypass. There wouldn’t be any tourists here. A sleek bar stretched across the back wall, stocked with every bottle imaginable, the glass glowing orange. Circular glass tables and velvet furniture and more obsidian stonework. The atmosphere was reserved, a hush of whispered conversations and the clink of glasses. It was so dimly lit that I thought maybe we’d walked into a Victorian séance room, not a ritzy lounge.

  “Phoenix,” Gemma whispered from somewhere to my left, “Try not to look so guilty.”

  I’m not good at this undercover shit, either, I guess.

  I tried for a neutral expression instead, but it probably defaulted to resting bitch face.

  Fake it ‘til you make it, I thought. I can totally afford the priciest whiskey on the shelf and not have to eat instant ramen for the next two weeks.

  Javier snickered. “Come on,” he said, his voice low, his arm brushing mine. “We’ll get through this together.”

  This is a horrible, truly awful idea.

  We followed Gemma down a wide, circular glass staircase.

  Of course the demons would be lurking in the lowest level
s. Their natural habitat.

  As we spiraled downward, there were crevices in the black stone that had been lit up like torches. Incendiary fire. The flames burned completely blue by the time we reached the bottom. A shiver wracked my spine knowing that the incendiaries used something that deadly as decoration. In plain sight, no less.

  Strains of a bluesy acoustic riff coasted toward us, all twanging guitar strings and solid, chugging rhythm. A soulful baritone voice cut in, rising above the noise that filled the room, wailing away on Robert Johnson’s “Cross Road Blues.”

  Of course.

  I found the musician commanding a solitary stage, just himself and his acoustic guitar, his dark brown skin awash in the electric blue light of Hellfire. He had an infectious, beaming smile as he sang, dimples in either cheek. A vein in his temple strained as he closed his eyes and belted out the devilish lyrics. Though many of the people in this room—even more dimly lit than the upstairs bar, and a lot more congested—were consumed with their own business, there were several tables in front of the stage absorbed by his mournful cover.

  We merged into the crowd, trying to keep close together. Gemma wandered ahead of me and Javier. The same oversized, dark red velvet furniture with similar glass tables were scattered throughout, except there were more shadowy corners to conduct whatever infernal dealings went on down here. Other than the incendiary flames at the center of each table and the soft orange glow coming from the bar, the room was shrouded in darkness. The A/C they were pumping in didn’t do much against the natural heat being thrown around the room, both from the bodies in it and the small fires brought forth from Hell itself.

  I caught a whiff of sulfuric brimstone and nearly lost any sense of composure I might’ve had right there in the middle of the floor. Woozy from the nausea and heat, I wobbled on my heels. For a few horrifying seconds, I found myself back in the burning hallway of that abandoned house, Hellfire roasting my eyebrows and grainy ashes falling lightly onto my hair.

  Please, not now, I begged. Keep it together.

  “Nix?” Javier was at my elbow again, his fingers resting gently on the small of my back this time. I tried to focus on the press of his fingertips to secure myself to the present, but all my body wanted to do was sprint for the nearest exit. “You okay?”

  I shook myself out of it. “I’m fine.”

  Javier didn’t seem convinced, if the crease between his eyebrows was any indication.

  Gemma waved us over to a booth well away from the crowded tables. We scooted in across from her and immediately it felt like the rest of the room disappeared; only the three of us tucked in our own little world of plush velvet. I suppressed the urge to extinguish the Hellfire that suspended above a chunk of unpolished obsidian in the middle of the table. The thought was tempting, but too dangerous to risk exposure now. I glanced at the pretentious-looking drink menu—laminated black paper with metallic silver writing in a pretentious font—while Gemma tried to flag down someone from the wait staff.

  A twenty-something with deep auburn hair tied back into a bun and devastating good looks finally sauntered over to the table to take our drink order. There was a strong veil of ancient power curling around him. He seemed to know Gemma, at least in the sense that maybe they were casual acquaintances. She ordered a glass of Prosecco. Then the incendiary’s eyes flittered between me and Javier, and I noticed the way his hand twitched, how he seemed to go rigid. To his credit, he covered whatever feelings he had about us remarkably well, but I knew something was off.

  After Javier ordered an Old Fashioned and I asked for whiskey, straight up, Gemma regarded us from the opposite end of the table and laced her fingers together slowly.

  “Welcome to Hell, friends,” she declared. “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

  Javier relaxed into the booth’s soft cushions. “Didn’t know they served pyros here.”

  Gemma scoffed. “They’ll take anyone’s money as long as you’re willing to socialize with them. Next thing you know, they’ve sweet-talked you out of your clothes or into some shady investment or both, if they’re clever,” she answered. “But if you want incendiary-exclusive bars, you have to go underground for that.”

  I shot her an incredulous look. “You’re not serious. That’s like, a metaphor, right?”

  “Yeah, she is.” Javier shook his head in disbelief and crossed his arms on top of the table. “Never been there, but you can find them if you know where to look. They don’t fuck around with the incendiary-only rule. A lot hiding under our feet, and it’s not just the Hellmouth.”

  Gemma was grinning at me, her folded hands now tucked under her chin. “You’re like a little baby bird. It’s adorable,” she laughed. “It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had to show anyone around, so I’m enjoying this a lot more than I thought I would. Who doesn’t love overpriced drinks in enemy territory?”

  The conversation didn’t pick back up again until after our drinks had been served, once we were sure there wasn’t going to be any more demonic interruptions.

  The whiskey warmed me up when I didn’t need the extra warmth. At least it calmed me a little, mellowing the shot of anxiety in my veins. I craned my neck to have a look around the room to the bar where patrons in elegant black and jewel tones sipped electric blue martinis and Cosmopolitans and glasses of red wine. Thin, vertical columns of Hellfire flanked a low mezzanine, scoring the roughened obsidian stonework like lightning bolts. The back wall was lined with velvet tufted benches to accommodate rows of rectangular glass tables. Light seemed to be more scarce up there, so maybe it was some kind of exclusive section.

  Demon territory.

  I took another sip of whiskey. “So, what are we up against?”

  Gemma blew out a noisy exhale. “Oh, babe…there’s a lot in that question.” She tapped her polished fingernails on the base of the wine glass. “PCU hates that I have this information, not that I’m the only one who has it. I’m just the woman on their immediate radar. That’s why they’re always begging me to work for them. I do all the legwork they don’t want to bother with. Figures.”

  She paused to take a sip of Prosecco, the bubbles shimmering blue in the incendiary flame. “Some of it is common knowledge in the pyro community, though. The mob’s supposed to be this huge secret but almost every pyro knows who the city belongs to. I don’t know what they think I’m going to do with this information. Sell it on the Black Market to pay off my student loans? I could, you know, but I’d rather not die.”

  “PCU seems prickly about this if everyone already knows,” I said.

  “They think that they can contain the spread of information, which is virtually impossible. But, there are some ignorant pyros—which is obvious, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s whatever at this point. I’ll let them have their fun,” Gemma said. “I think they’re trying their best to keep the tourists and normal folks oblivious. Fighting in the shadows and all that.”

  “What they won’t admit,” Javier added, “is that they aren’t equipped to take on an incendiary mob. That’s why they don’t wanna deal with it.”

  “And you think your little team here is going to wipe them all out? That’s cute.”

  “I like an underdog story.” Javier grinned. “If they aren’t gonna do it, someone has to. Can’t wait around forever while things get worse.”

  “I only signed on for one idiotic job, so good luck with that,” Gemma said. “I put my ass on the line enough as it is goading the bootlickers for scraps. And, well, if they get hurt a little that’s their problem.” She took a leisurely gulp of wine.

  I learned in closer, intrigued. “They actually talk?”

  “Not always, but some of them can get a bit chatty,” Gemma answered. “Those ones are fed up with the hierarchy. Everyone wants more power. More money. More chaos. Some of them want to sever ties with incendiary life. You’d be surprised what you find.”

  I traced my finger along the rim of my glass. “And what do you get
out of it? It must be good enough for you to risk your own life.”

  Gemma’s gaze drifted from mine to the blue flame. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll see if it’s all been worth it if their empire comes crumbling down one day. But y’all want to play Jenga and I’m thinking that this more of a Chess situation.”

  Point taken.

  “…Anyway. Your arsonist. He has status. He’s wielding a lot of power. Which is weird, if you ask me, because common pyromania is beneath someone like him. I mean, demons’ll set fires, but only if there’s something they can gain from it. Most of them are motivated by chaos. But you don’t find guys like him prowling abandoned houses for cheap thrills. That’s usually pyro and bootlicker nonsense.”

  For the first time since we got here, Gemma lowered her voice. “I think this guy’s part of the original Legion.”

  “Shit,” Javier muttered.

  “I’m lost,” I said. “But that’s nothing new.”

  “They’re the fuckers who razed the city. When the Hellmouth opened up,” Javier explained, leaning forward over the table. “Tough to kill, but my dad—and yours—knocked down some of ‘em back in the day with their team. No one knows exactly how many in the Legion are left.”

  “Sometimes they show their pretty faces here,” Gemma said. “I’ve seen a few up close. They’re not much different than the rest of them, but you can just tell they have this weird, holier-than-thou attitude—well, not exactly the best choice of words, but you know what I mean. Model-esque types with silky hair and a bone structure that reeks of old money and privilege. Clothes I could never afford in my lifetime.” She nodded toward the darkness of the mezzanine.

  I peered into the dark, my heart climbing into my throat at the thought of being within spitting distance of the most dangerous creatures in the city. They were silhouettes, figures moving with the shadows that hid them. I caught glimpses of razor-sharp jawlines and high cheekbones, diamond encrusted jewelry that sparkled in the light of their incendiary flames.

  “The Legion is their Mafia,” she explained. “The elite among bastards. Sure, they can charm their way into your pants with minimal effort if that’s the kind of good time they’re looking for, but they’re all snakes. Lording over this place from their Gothic tower downtown.”