Page 1 of Fire and Bones

PROLOGUE

FOGGY BOTTOM

WASHINGTON, DC

Her nose prickled.

Her throat itched.

She coughed.

Old buildings are musty, she told herself, groggy with sleep.

But why the acrid smell? And what was that bitter taste on her tongue?

Had her instincts been correct? Should she have fled upon seeing the nightmare warren of jerry-rigged rooms? The windowless space her fifty bucks had secured?

She opened her eyes.

To total darkness.

Dust. It’s only dust.

Not convinced of that explanation, her hypothalamus ordered up a precautionary round of adrenaline.

Her olfactory lobe IDed the pillow, dank and mildewed from decades spent cushioning the heads of down-in-the-heels travelers. She raised up from it. Slid her phone from beneath it.

The screen came to life, illuminating her hand and the frayed ribbon bordering the ratty polyester blanket. The cast-off glow revealed little else of her surroundings.

Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she sat up, scrolled left, and tapped the flashlight app. Sent the plucky little beam looping around her.

Shadows bounced from the room’s sparse furnishings in a jumble of cascading angles and shapes. A bureau held level with an ancient keyboard jammed under one corner. A rusty brass floor lamp. A wheeled metal clothing rack holding four hangers.

Nothing alarming.

Until the narrow white shaft landed on the door.

Black smoke was oozing through the gap where the bottom failed to meet the floor. Beyond the gap, orange-and-yellow light danced fitfully.

Flames?

Barely breathing, she tiptoe ran across the carpet and placed a palm on one panel.

The wood felt warm.

She touched the knob.

Hot!

Using the hem of her tee, she turned the handle and inched open a peephole. Flames twisted around the bed and curled the drapes at the window in the adjacent room.

Her breath froze.

She slammed the door.

Ohgodohgodohgod!

She listened. Heard no alarm. No sirens.

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