Page 9 of Fire's Storm
"What are you looking for?" Burns asks, breaking through my distracted thoughts.
A dragon. A storm-maker. The other half of whatever I'm becoming.
"Patterns," I say instead. "Something doesn't add up about these incidents."
He nods slowly, eyes tracking the colored pins I've placed on the regional map. "You think they're connected? The Devil's Peak fires?"
I freeze, pulse spiking. "What did you call them?"
"Devil's Peak fires." Burns points to the mountain rising from the center of my map. "That's what the old-timers call that area. Said it's cursed. Strange weather, unexplained phenomena. Local legends say the mountain has a mind of its own."
Or something living on it.
My fingers trace the pattern I've been mapping—a spiral emanating outward from the mountain peak, each incident occurring in perfect geometric sequence like the flame patterns I witnessed at the heart of the fire. My research has revealed electrical storms in clear skies preceding each unusual fire, all within a fifty-mile radius of Devil's Peak. The timing correlates with lunar cycles—most activity during the full moon.
"Tonight is the full moon," I murmur, more to myself than Burns.
The realization sends another jolt of electricity through my system, making the computer screen flicker. Burns notices, glancing from the screen to me with a frown.
"Damn wiring in this place," he mutters. "Maintenance keeps saying they'll fix it."
I nod, letting him believe the convenient explanation. Something will happen tonight. I know it with bone-deep certainty that defies logical explanation.
He'll be there. Waiting. The thought forms unbidden in my mind, accompanied by another pulse of electrical energy across my skin. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, pressing my legs together as static builds between them.
"Heading out early," I announce abruptly, gathering the maps into my bag. "Take the calls, Burns. I'll be on my cell if there's an emergency."
Professional protocol dictates I stay on shift until six. Professional protocol can go fuck itself. I have a mountain to visit and a mystery to solve.
Burns watches me with obvious concern as I pack up. I can smell the worry emanating from him—a sharp, acrid scent that makes my nose wrinkle. The entire crew has been watching me with sideways glances, whispering when they think I can't hear. Their captain—always composed, always in control—now jumpy, distracted, prone to emotional outbursts.
They're worried. I should care more about that than I do.
But all I can focus on is finding him again.
The drive to Devil's Peak takes longer than I expected. The roads wind through dense forest, poorly maintained and unmarked in places. My body knows the way, though, an internal compass pulling me toward the mountain with unrelenting certainty.
With each mile closer to the site, the ache in my bones eases slightly. The headache that's been my constant companion for three days fades to a dull throb. My skin feels less tight, as if whatever is trying to emerge has more room to breathe here.
Against all professional protocol, I'm doing this alone. I should bring backup—standard procedure requires minimum two-person teams in the field. Should inform dispatch of my location—safety protocols I've enforced rigorously with my own crew.
I do neither. Can't risk witnesses to whatever happens next. Can't explain my certainty that he will be there, waiting. Can't articulate the pull that draws me back to where everything changed.
I approach this like any challenge—gather intelligence, assess risks, develop strategy. If I can't control the situation entirely, I can at least command my response to it.
The burn site comes into view as I park at the forest service access road. It should be a charred wasteland—the fire had burned hot enough to reduce everything to ash. But impossibly, new growth already covers the ground—vibrant green plants sprouting from blackened earth in geometric patterns matching the fire's movement. Perfect circles. Spirals. Double helices.
I crouch, touching the impossibly lush vegetation. Three days. Plants don't regrow in three days after devastation this complete. Yet here they are—not just surviving but thriving, greener and more vibrant than the unburned sections of forest.
"What the hell is going on?" I mutter, rubbing a leaf between my fingers. It feels normal yet somehow charged with energy that tingles against my skin.
The air tastes different here—cleaner, sharper, charged with potential. Each breath fills my lungs with power that races through my bloodstream, awakening something that's been dormant my entire life. My vision sharpens further, colors intensifying until the forest glows with life-energy I've never perceived before.
I can hear the sap moving in the trees, the insects burrowing beneath the soil, the heartbeats of small creatures watching me from hiding places. Scents bombard me—decomposing leaves, mushroom spores, animal musk, and beneath it all, a familiar electrical tang that makes my pulse quicken.
He's been here. Recently.
The certainty comes from some primitive part of my brain, the part that recognizes danger or desire before conscious thought forms. My body responds instantly—static electricity building along my skin, small blue sparks dancing between my fingers. The air around me charges with potential energy, pressure dropping slightly as my emotional state affects the atmosphere.
