Firebug (17 page)

“If that hand gets anywhere near my ass, I'll bite it off,” I whispered.

“That's my girl,” he said, pulling me close again for a quick peck on my forehead. “Thought I'd lost you there for a moment.”

I mumbled something and let him drag me down yet another hallway. I was stumbling now and losing energy fast. I could feel the fires getting away from me, pulling from my control. They would probably go out without me to egg them on. I tried to hold on to them as best I could, but it was like grabbing handfuls of sand. A sudden blast of cool air hit me in the face. We were outside. Ezra held the door, slowing its close so it made only a muted
click
when it shut. Then we moved quickly along the wall, slipping around cars, finally sliding behind some Dumpsters. He stopped there, hiding us in the shadows. We watched as a patrol of security guards went past, people already looking for us.

As we hid in the shadows, another group of guards went by, coming from the other direction. We saw more off along the edges of the lot. There were too many for us to conceivably make it past without detection. They were walking in small groups of two to four, circling like sharks. My adrenaline was gone, and without it I was fading fast. The cold didn't help, either I could feel the night air nipping at my fingertips and turning my wet clothes into ice. We needed to think of a distraction, something to draw the patrolling groups to one place. And perhaps something to bring the customers out, to add to the confusion—something that would get the human authorities involved as well.

And what brings people together more than a cheery bonfire? I squeezed Lock's hand. He turned his face toward me, just enough so he could see me, but not enough to take his eyes off the people looking for us.

“Where's your car?” I whispered. I couldn't remember. It felt like we'd parked it eons ago.

He frowned. “I'm not going to want to answer that, am I?”

“You have insurance,” I said. “And I'd feel bad destroying a stranger's car.”

“That's by far one of the weirdest things to come out of your mouth. You feel better about destroying your friend's car? How does that make sense?”

“I know your situation. You'll be fine. But what if I blow up someone's car and they have no insurance, or they need it to … I don't know, transport gruel to homeless puppies or something?”

“You're insane, you know that?”

“Shut up and tell me where your car is.”

Of course it wasn't close to us. That would have been too easy. We had to go back toward the building and slide around the side of a particularly ugly van so I could see Lock's car. I was still feeling shaky, so I kept telling myself that I just had to do this—one more thing—and then I could rest. I'd often mocked Owen for not practicing his long-distance game, but I was just as guilty. I hadn't trained enough, and now my endurance was shot. No use crying over spilt milk and all that.

I held my hands out, slightly cupped, but kept my elbows tucked tight against me. My hands shook a little, though I'm not sure if that was from exhaustion or the cold.

“Are you okay?” Concern filled Lock's face.

“Yeah,” I said. “Fine. You worry too much.”

Lock said nothing, but he didn't look any less anxious when he glanced over at Ez, so I wasn't certain either of them entirely bought my reassurance. They didn't argue, though. Finally, Lock just sighed and leaned against the van, next to me. Ezra stood on the other side, keeping watch from that end of things. A hand wave from Lock told me to proceed, even though it was obvious he wasn't keen on my doing anything.

I'd set fire to cars before, though I couldn't say I was an expert at it, which I guess was a good thing. It wasn't something I had to do frequently, but it was necessary at times, like when I had to burn the Coterie car after my mom died. This time I needed more than a burn to be really impressive. I wanted a solid distraction—I needed to light up the sky. In the end I decided to go with a two-pronged assault. First, I set the interior to smoldering. This was harder than it sounds because people prefer that their cars not blow up. So newer car upholstery is flame retardant. Plus, I didn't want to use any more energy than I had to, because I was going to need it for the second part of my plan.

I kept raising the heat until I had a nice friendly blaze going. Then, after a few heads had turned toward it, I continued with part two. I quickly expanded a giant ball of flame in the gas tank. Of course, Lock didn't have that much fuel in the car, nor do things blow up quite the way they do in the movies, but that didn't really matter, since I was there to help it along. There was no way in hell a car could do that naturally. It was straight-up theatrics on my part, but the humans would buy it. They wouldn't know any better.

So I created a column of flame that would have made Prometheus blush.

Then I passed out.

8

T
HIS
I
S
W
HY
W
E
C
AN'T
H
AVE
N
ICE
T
HINGS

I
WOKE UP
in Ezra's car. I could tell it was his because it was ostentatious, it was immaculately clean, and the warm leather seats smelled like Ez—a combination of vanilla and smug vanity. If a peacock could drive, this was the car it would pick. Lock's leather jacket was draped over me even though the car was warm. Ezra was curled up, asleep, in the back seat. All the shifting between forms and the healing from last night had worn him out. I peeked over the collar of the jacket and saw the telltale fluorescents of a minimart.

Had I felt like my normal not-exactly-perky-but-at-least-healthy self, I would have hopped out of my seat and gone in search of Lock. As I felt now, it was pretty much all I could do to keep my eyes open. The world was still a bit wobbly. I'd overdone it. Hello, firebug hangover.

I had a stash of electrolyte pills in my pocket, and I tried to get them, but my hands were shaking too hard to even open my pocket. Stupid buttons. Note to self—get a jacket with Velcro. After the night we had, I wasn't even sure I could wake Ezra, and if Lock hadn't been around for me to rely on, I could have been in some serious trouble, all because I couldn't manage a damn button. But I did have Lock. So I nestled farther under his jacket and waited for him.

With the jacket up over my nose, Lock's smell overpowered Ezra's. He'd had this leather jacket as long as I'd known him, and his scent had really seeped into it. If Ez smelled like vanilla and smugness, Lock smelled like green things and warm days. And sweat. I couldn't smell deodorant—he used some natural unscented hippie crap. So yeah, sweat, but not bad. Not like a locker room or anything. No, Lock's scent reminded me of spring buds and the way the earth smells when it just starts to get warm. Lock smelled like promise. I found it comforting—which, when I stopped to think about it, made me uncomfortable.

Moments later, Lock pushed open the minimart door with his back, his arms laden with bags. He looked singed and haggard.

Bags stashed in the trunk, he slid into the front seat.

“You look like an extra from
Escape from New York
or something,” I said, my throat scratchy from breathing so much smoke at the inferno.

“You look worse.” He popped the lid off a generic sports drink and glared at me.

“Now is not the time for idle jaw flappery.”

Since his fingers weren't shaking, he had no problem digging a few of the electrolyte capsules out of my pocket and popping them into my mouth. He held the bottle so I could drink and not spill all over myself as I washed them down. Once he was satisfied that I'd managed to get enough of the liquid in me, he started the car and drove to a different gas station. After filling up our tank, he came out with the keys to the bathroom and dragged me in with him. We left Ezra asleep in the car. His clothes had been put on postbattle, so they weren't singed, torn, and wrinkled like mine and Lock's. And they were, I noticed jealously, completely dry.

“Romantic,” I said as Lock flicked on the lights and locked the door. “I was kinda hoping for dinner, first.”

“Please, even if I took you on a date in a gas station bathroom, it would still be the best date you've ever had,” he said as he started digging through one of the bags he'd brought with him. He was joking, probably to distract me, but unfortunately he was probably right.

“Ryan once took me to—”

“
Ehhhh
,” he said, making a harsh buzzer sound. “You started that sentence with ‘Ryan,' and therefore I already know that the date wouldn't live up to one with me. That's not arrogance, it's fact. Here.” He pulled out a bright yellow T-shirt and threw it at me. I unrolled it, finding a few rows of bold text that read if you are what you eat, i must be fast, cheap, & easy.

“Classy. Are we picking up souvenirs?”

Lock took off his own shirt and tossed it in the trash. “As you've pointed out, we look like hell. If we get pulled over by the cops, they're going to ask questions. I can't do anything about the fact that we smell like the main course at a poorly handled luau, but we can at least ditch the singed clothing and make ourselves semi-passable.”

My fuzzy brain managed to grasp this logic. I nodded and tried to shrug out of my jacket. I wasn't very successful. Lock helped me out of it and then out of my shirt with a gentlemanly efficiency, or as gentlemanly as he could manage. He only wiggled his eyebrows at me once. For Lock that was remarkable restraint.

“Any extra supplies and clothes we had stashed were in my car, so gas station fare is all we've got.” There were no paper towels, of course, so he wet what was left of my shirt and used it to clean off my face. His movements were quick and capable, but I could tell he was trying to be as gentle as he could.

I wasn't able to stand very well on my own yet, so Lock held me with one arm while helping me shuck off my burnt jeans and boots with the other. “You're pretty skilled at this, Casanova.”

“I told you I could make a gas station bathroom the place to be, and I'm not even trying. Think of what I could do if I actually set my mind to it.”

I grinned at him. “Yeah, some candles, a little mood music…”

He stared at me for a moment like he wasn't quite sure how to respond, and in the silence I realized how close he was … and how little I was wearing. Outside, an engine roared and the weird spell broke. My cheeks flushed, and I looked at my socks, the only thing between me and the disgusting floor.

“Reminds me a little bit of the day we met. Wasn't I taking off your wet pants then, too? Apparently we're not making any progress in life.” Lock leaned away, balling up my jeans and tossing them in the trash but keeping one arm tight around me. “So of course I'm getting good at this—practice makes perfect. I mean, c'mon, Aves, first roofies, now this. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were making a pass at me.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to play hard to get. And how would me being roofied be a pass at you?”

He grunted and used his free hand to pull out a pair of the ugliest sweats I've ever seen, and that was saying something. They were a sickly pastel green and they had
GOT CLAMS
? tastefully printed on the back, in an outline of the state of Massachusetts. Nice.

“I think I'd rather just stay in my underpants. Got clams? Really?”

“The condition this bathroom is in, I'd be more worried about crabs.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me or make things worse?”

“Both. Look, gas stations aren't generally known for their haute couture. It was the best I could do, though after seeing your underwear, I'm not sure your fashion opinions are valid.”

“What, a girl can't wear Incredible Hulk Underoos?” I stuck a foot into the hideous sweats. “Hulk smash, Lock. Hulk smash.”

“Only you would wear underwear with a catchphrase. What do you say when you wear the Spider-Man pair?”

I grinned. “My spidey sense is tingling.”

He looked up at me, smirking. “Fantastic Four?”

“Flame on,” I said. “Those are my favorite, obviously.” Growing up, I had a big interest in Johnny Storm. He was the closest thing to a media-based firebug role model I could get. I used to think that if he could be a firebug and a hero, maybe I could be one too. That particular dream had gone poof, but I still had a soft spot for him.

“I figured,” he said pulling the sweats up all the way. “At least it wasn't Clobberin' Time.” He picked me up at the waist and set me on the bathroom counter so he could help me get my boots back on more easily. Combat boots and gas station T-shirt and sweats. Oh, if Brittany could see me now.

Lock leaned back and took a good look at me. Once I passed inspection, he started on himself. I tried my best not to admire my friend as he stripped to his skivvies, but I mean, honestly, he spends a lot of time in the gym. He's not disgustingly overdeveloped, but he was, for lack of a better word,
defined.
It would be unkind not to admire something he obviously put so much time into. I mean, when someone works hard, it's polite to acknowledge that, right? It's just good manners.

His gas station ensemble was better than mine, as it wasn't a violent yellow and pastel green. His shirt was an understated gray, though the lettering was no less saucy. i need someone really bad
—
are you really bad? was etched in black lettering across Lock's chest. If Sylvie saw that shirt, she'd freaking swoon. He got off light on the sweats, too. They were black with an embroidered lobster on the leg.

“You sure they didn't have those in my size?”

“Best I could do, Aves.”

I leaned my head against the questionable tile and waited for Lock to be done. “Why didn't we just do this at the last place?”