Page 1 of Intrepid

Prologue

Fire is a truly fascinating element.

The way it gives light to darkness, creates warmth in the cold. It’s a wonder such a beautiful gift of nature can be so destructive, cause so much pain at the mere touch of it. In many ways, love bears a striking resemblance to a flame, both inviting and painful, and sometimes just as easily snuffed. One minute, you’re warm and content, and in a single breath, you’re cold and lost in the dark.

Detroit has more fires than any other city in the country. They can be smelled on the air, breathed in. It’s a hard city, like old, rusted metal that somehow keeps its shape in the thick of a blaze. All forged steel and flames, with a core that just keeps burning, no matter how much heat is thrown at it. With over seventy thousand abandoned buildings, it’s like the fall of Rome—a feast for the arsonist.

And tonight, I offer it another sacrifice.

Drawing in a long inhale, I flick my cigarette onto the thick trail of gasoline, and a modest flare zips along its tragic path with fervor, catching the kindling I set at the feet of the man who wears the marks of punishment for the crimes he’s committed. Upon reaching him, it bursts into an audacious spectacle, sparing no mercy for its tinder, as it eagerly climbs the man’s body.

Pure showmanship that fails to draw a single emotion from me.

The man’s scream carries the gurgle of fluids, ones still trapped in his lungs after I intentionally filled his chest with water and then emptied it in a piss poor attempt to keep him alive a bit longer. Still, this one’s much cleaner than the others. Less blood and evidence, which means I’ve gotten better at not only hunting, but the art of disposing, as well.

The scent on the air is greasy death, with the sharp tang of charred meat that hits the back of my throat. Corrupt bastards stink when they burn.

I watch as the fire wreaks havoc against the man’s pale skin, consuming him like a jealous lover. All ravenous and angry. Passionate and unforgiving. The flames scorch his limbs like tree branches, splitting open the skin to reach the yellow fat beneath.

I once read that the body can sustain its own fire for around seven hours, while the muscles desiccate and contract, adopting odd contortions as if posed that way.

It only takes minutes for his flesh to sizzle black, while his muscles tremble with the searing agony of the vicious flame. The same agony I imagine my father suffered when they burned him alive.

The same agony they’ll all eventually suffer for leaving me cold and trapped in darkness for so long.

A smile tugs at my lips as I step closer to the pyre and raise my hands to ward off the chill of late October.

1

Sera

intrepid

adjective: in·trep·id \ in-ˈtre-pəd \

characterized by resolute fearlessness, fortitude, and endurance

I’d never done anything so stupid in my whole life.

Dilapidated neighborhoods along Warren Avenue slipped past my periphery, as I stared through the window of the cramped Prius. Even if I worked up the nerve to have the driver pull over and let me out, I’d be standing on Warren freakin’ Avenue, smack in the shit side of Detroit. I might’ve sported a more urban look than my yuppie peers from the suburbs, but I’d never blend in with the prostitutes and street thugs, even if I tried.

I was trapped, and hell if I didn’t know what trapped felt like.

Two hours ago, I’d been the true me. The intelligent, non-reckless me, who’d survived eight years in my father’s suffocating chokehold, only to blow it all in one stupid decision. A couple hours out of the cage, and I’d already torn my wings. I could feel his words beating against my skull: You won’t make it one year in that city. Within two hours, I’d probably proven him right.

I blamed it on what I liked to call deferential vulnerability. Sort of like peer pressure, but more academic. My version included highly persuasive variables, like moving to one of the most dangerous cities in the world by myself, and rooming with an eccentric art major, instead of the levelheaded law student my father would’ve preferred. I’d been granted permission to live off campus, too—the perk of being a ruthless prick’s daughter. Having defended some of the most loathed criminals in the city, my father carried just about the same notoriety as Kwame Kilpatrick, which meant he was rarely challenged by anyone—not even the dean.

No wonder my mom had skipped town with me when I was a baby. And had she not died unexpectedly, she’d have probably sent me to grow up in a convent, over having me return back to his iron fist.

Personally, I’d have preferred to live on campus, but my father had insisted otherwise. Not because he gave a shit about me—he just didn’t want his daughter seen going in and out of what he considered a lowly living environment. After all, what would the public think of him as a father?

Much to his dismay, I’d stumbled upon an ad for a roommate, and ended up at the Brittany. Nowhere near as luxurious as he’d have expected, but only about a mile from campus, and being the doting prick that he was, he’d refused to pay for my housing since I’d opted for the less opulent side of town. Which meant I’d need to find a job. Soon.

“Why so quiet, Kutchie?” My new roommate, Bea, peered around the passenger seat in front of me. Her eyelids had already fallen into a basset hound droop with whatever pills she’d popped just moments before we’d taken off, and the slight slur in her voice sent a little shock of panic to the back of my neck, a distress signal to my brain. Almost like a sixth sense that invariably told me something bad would happen at some point in the night.

At least she wasn’t the one driving.

At first meeting, I’d pinned her as different, sure. Although her shoulder-length jet black hair, shaved on one side, and chunky black glasses, mirrored my own unconventional style, the piercings in the bridge of her nose, her nostrils, and both cheeks set her apart. Bright red lipstick lured my eyes away from the mole at the corner of her mouth, and the tats she sported climbed up her neck to behind her ears. The bone necklace she’d paired with a ruffled red steampunk cardigan my grandma would’ve borrowed gave her a nerdy glamour-goth look. Typical inner city art student, like any other I’d anticipated meeting on campus. I admired her strangeness, having come from a prep school filled with sycophant yuppies in bland navy blue and khaki uniforms, where having any unique traits was quickly smothered in shame.