Page 82 of Pyre

Lucas. He wasn’t high enough in the chain to be part of the conspiracy. More importantly, he had lost his partner to Edward. He could help her hold onto the anger, to the hatred she needed to continue.

Now, she sat in his office, the air thick with paper and burned coffee, her pulse a taut wire beneath her skin.

“There’s a cure, Lucas.” The words landed between them, heavy, irrevocable.

Lucas didn’t move. His eyes stayed on her, unreadable. Then, without a word, he made his way to the door, and turned the lock. The soft click sent a prickle of unease down her spine. He went back and folded his hands on the desk.

“I need you to understand,” he said, measured, deliberate.

Ruby pushed back from the desk, chair legs scraping against the tile. A slow burn of distrust crawled up her throat. “You’re one of them.” The words tasted bitter. “You knew. You bas—”

“They don’t know I know.”

The sharp interruption cut through her anger. Her mouth snapped shut. Her pulse thrummed as she searched his face for a lie and found nothing but exhaustion.

“Then how?” she asked.

Lucas leaned forward, forearms braced against the desk. “I’ll explain. But you need to listen. Promise me.”

Uncertainty coiled in her chest, but she gave a stiff nod.

He exhaled. “Edward and I were working together.”

The floor tilted. The room blurred at the edges. Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms.

“You know my partner died a thermophile, right?” Lucas asked, quieter now.

The floor seemed to shift beneath her. The room tilted. She released her fists, stretched her fingers, and nodded, throat tight.

“It’s true the TCA killed him. Burned him alive, just like the others.” He wavered, staring at a framed photo on the desk. “But Edward didn’t make him one.”

“But he’s the only one who knows how—”

Lucas shook his head. “He’s not. The higher-ups know, Ruby. They’ve known for a long time. But no one turned my partner into one.”

Frustration flared sharp in her ribs. “So what are you saying? That he wasn’t a thermophile?”

“He was.” The weight of it settled between them.

She forced a breath, steadying herself. “Then how?”

Lucas ran a hand over his face, shoulders sagging. “The bacteria is naturally occurring.” He met her gaze. “It just happens sometimes. Like a fungal infection. Everyone breathes in small amounts, but occasionally, it concentrates. Starts in the lungs, spreads. Some doctors mistake it for pneumonia.”

Something cold curled in her stomach.

“That makes no sense,” she said. “How do they eat if they don’t even know?”

“They think they’re just sick,” he said. “They can’t hold down food, start wasting away. If they’re unlucky, they inhale phlogiston—that’s what activates it. If they don’t, the bacteria dies off. They recover like nothing happened.”

The walls seemed to inch closer. Her fingers dug into the chair’s armrests.

“Then why the fuck would Edward force people to turn?” she bit out.

Lucas laughed bitterly. “Because a lot of people are unlucky.” His jaw tensed. “The infection is rare, but phlogiston isn’t. Fireplaces. A friend’s cigarette. A BBQ joint. Even Burger King’s damn smoke. Once it’s inhaled, there’s no turning back—unless they get the cure. But without it, they deteriorate. You know what withdrawal feels like. First the exhaustion, then the mania. After that? Violence. Erratic behavior. Drug use. They end up in jail or on the streets. And as soon as they’re exposed, the TCA swoops in.”

Her grip tightened. “But why? If there’s a cure, why kill them?”

Lucas let out a slow breath. “The government has never needed a reason.” His voice cut through the air, sharpened by something dark. “The cure is expensive. Time-consuming. And if people knew it existed, they’d start asking questions about the infection.”

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