Three dayslater and I’m dead on my feet. Apart from working, my nights have been spent spying on criminals, and my days spent spying on Lor. I’m honored she’s trusted me with so much of her truth, even if she hasn’t yet told me about her criminal employers. It doesn’t bother me that her work is illegal. It bothers me that it puts her in danger.
It just so happens that I have the power to eliminate that danger.
I’m satisfied with my plan and ready to put it into action, but part of me worries what will happen if they don’t heed mymessage. I guess in that case, I’ll have to reconsider the murder idea.
I’d do it for her.
With that decided, I fall into bed for a few hours. I won’t be able to pull this off if I can’t keep my eyes open, and since this is the one night I have off this week, it’s now or never.
When I wake, my heart is already pumping. I pull on all black: leather pants, t-shirt, loose hoodie, combat boots, riding gloves, and tuck a ski mask into my pocket. I grab a can of lighter fluid, just in case, and head out the door.
When I get to the warehouse, it’s mostly deserted, as it has been every other night. I pull on my ski mask and double check the perimeter, then launch myself up the same fire escape I previously used to spy on Lor. I found a loose window a floor further up when I was here a couple nights ago, and I use it now to carefully lower myself inside.
I start on the opposite side of the building, lighting small flames on boxes, desks, in a waste basket, and under a flight of stairs.
I’ve been practicing with my flames as well; how to light and control multiple at once, even if they’re not in sight. It’s not easy—in fact, it’s really fucking challenging—and my forehead beads with sweat at the effort it takes to split my mind between so many different fires. I picture each of them, willing them to hold, to stay small, not to sputter out and not to flare, not yet.
Then I wait until the goon on watch steps outside for their hourly walk around the building to go to the middle of the empty warehouse floor. I use the lighter fluid to write a massive message, then I sprint back up the stairs to my loose window. I swipe the back of my wrist over my eyes, flicking away the sweat that has dripped from under my mask as I flatten my back against the wall. Then I peek outside and wait, wait, wait.
As soon as the goon rounds the corner out of view, it’s time.
I drop the lighter fluid beneath the window, hop out onto the rickety metal ladder and grip it tight, then close my eyes. I find the flames and will them to grow. To catch, to flare, to rouse, but to leave a circle around my message clear. In my mind’s eye, they rear up, engulfing the desk, the boxes, the stairs. When I’m sure they’ve all caught and aren’t at risk of going out, I let go of them one by one, releasing my control for them to blaze on their own.
Then I turn my sights to my message. My lungs rattle when I suck in a deep breath, the air shaky in my chest as I push my power to its limit. I only need one more flame, just one more to catch, and I’m done.
The door opens, and it’s now or never.
I whip one glove off and reach through the window, closing my eyes to focus on my inner fire. I let it build within me, feeding it with thoughts of Lor: the threats to her life, her sadness and despair, all her hurt and everything that’s been stolen from her. I feed it all to the inner flame until it’s roiling within me.
Then I open my eyes, and will it to pour out.
Fire flies from my fingers straight down into the warehouse. It catches on the first letter, then whooshes through the rest and the lighter-fluid roars to life.
LEAVE HER ALONE OR YOURE NEXT
I also added shooting stars on either side, just to make it extra clear.
Flames shoot into the air, and my arm falls to the window sill as my shoulders droop. I heave a sigh of relief; there is no more fire within me. I’m drained, a hollow, empty spot where my flames usually roll. I’ve never used it all up before, but I can tell I have nothing left to give tonight.
Then a shout rends the air, and I glance back inside to see the goon staring up at me. His eyes dart from the fire to me, then back to the flames before he turns to run.
“Shit,” I say, my hand slipping on the metal ladder as I pull away from the window.
I fumble to pull my riding glove back on, then make my way unsteadily to the ground. I don’t know if he’s planning on coming for me himself or calling for backup, but I’m in no state to take anyone on right now. I turn and stumble-run down the alley.
I parked close in case I needed a quick getaway, and I’ve never been so relieved to see my bike before. I throw myself onto it, clumsy, but managing to get my feet in the right places as I push the throttle and tear out of there.
I don’t look back as I weave my way through the back streets, sticking to alleys when I can, and avoiding stoplights for fear of cameras. I take off my mask and gloves as soon as I’m a couple miles away, then I continue to drive in circles and twist my way through random neighborhoods until my entire body is too heavy to keep going for much longer.
When I finally pull up to my place, I barely make it to my bedroom before yanking off my clothes, and collapsing on the bed.
Ferocious poundingon my door jolts me awake. My head is pounding too, and I groan at the splitting headache. Did I drink too much last night? I never drink enough to be hungover this bad, but clearly I was not making good choices.
I holler that I’ll be right there in an attempt to get whoever is outside to stop beating my door, and then immediately regretshouting as it exacerbates my headache, shooting streaks of lightning across my vision. I roll off the bed, one hand pressed to my eyes and the other reaching into my closet as I attempt to orient myself.
Pants, I need pants. And a shirt.
When I’m adequately clothed, I stumble to the door and pull it open, then stare in shock at the two officers glaring at me.
