Sneak Peek at Chapter One

Chapter One: Firestarter

A door slammed shut behind her, blanketing the holding cell in black and in that darkness, Alez knew she would add three bodies to her kill list. If she was going to rot in the light prisons again, it had better be for a crime she’d actually committed. She paced the thirty narrow steps from the cement slab door to the far wall, chewing a nail to the stub.

Fire alarms continued to blare in the distance. The thick cut of smoke still curled on her tongue as she tried and failed to block out the shrill screams. This fire would unjustifiably become another crime in the long list of infractions tallied against her. Most she’d earned, and she had paid her debt to society. But this—this didn’t deserve her brand. 

In the darkness, she could just make out the silhouette of boxes stacked along a wall. As soon as one of her kidnappers made the idiotic decision to open that door, she would bash a box over their head, run out of the facility, and hitch a ride on the first airship off this Blighted rock. Maybe to one of the distant mining colonies. A person could make a living digging metals. It would be a hard life, but she wouldn’t have to constantly look over her shoulder. Better a decade drilling meteors than whatever awaited her here. 

Blight. 

The only complication to her escape plan; Collin. Out of the thousands of people on this plague-ridden planet, he was the singular ray of hope. She needed to get word to him—to tell him she was sorry. That this time really wasn’t her fault. 

Collin was better off without her. All she did was hold him back, make trouble that he felt compelled to save her from. It was for the best. 

But her heart knew better. Pretend all she wanted, there was no chance she would flee without him. The answer was in ocean-blue eyes that smiled at her over breakfast this morning. An answered she viewed each time their hands brushed, walking home from classes. She should at least say goodbye. New Plan:

Kill the bastards who kidnapped and locked her in this cell.

Somehow escape a maximum security building, crawling with military bastards.

Say goodbye to Collin. 

 Then find a way off this rock. 

That all sounded great as she imagined escape within the narrow confines of her holding cell. While her captors stood just on the other side of the door––deliberating the best way to dispatch her punishment––she was trapped in a holding tank, imaging the impossible. 

Her plan wasn’t actually a plan. For instance, how would she leave the building? Guards patrolled each exit in pairs. To even exit the interior zone, she’d need to scan an identity chip through their readers. There was no bypass. No way out. 

Alez continued pacing. Her hand slid down her arm to the row of rainbow rubber bands choked along her left wrists. She popped the rubber, three at a time, against her veins until pain seeped beneath calloused skin and fried her nerve endings. With a low breath, she exhaled tension that knotted her shoulder blades. Air flowed steady through her lungs as she forced a new rhythm.

Better.

The creeping thrum of her chest rising and falling synched with the snap and tug of bands along her skin. After some minutes, her heart slowed enough that she could think without the thoughts retracing paths in her mind. Each rubber band strike swallowed the din. Each strike–a dose of calm. 

On the opposite side of the metal door, she could nearly make out three distinct voices. The same three men who’d picked her up off the street and threw her in the back of a van. She blotted the raised cuts along her arm from when they’d thrown her to the ground. The bastards had caught her off guard. Den Mother would be disappointed in her momentary lapse in vigilance. But she planned to pay them back in kind. 

Under the constant screeching of the fire alarm, it was a marvel she could hear herself think. Padding lightly to the door, she held her breath, afraid they would hear her stifled breaths. 

With quiet hands, she rattled the rusted door knob. Wishful thinking. 

Unfortunately for her, she couldn’t just waltz out of here. She scanned for an escape route, finding none. The metal drain burrowed into the concrete floor held no options. The vent in the ceiling, however, had potential. From floor to vent spanned about ten feet. She pressed up on the tips of her toes and jumped, straining for the metal lines and cursed herself when she netted air. Tall compared to most women her age, which she hated, but right now, she would murder for an extra foot and a half. 

Alez crouched down on hands and knees and scanned the floor with the pads of her hands. She couldn’t see five inches in front of her, searching for anything that could leverage her height so she could reach the vent. 

In the dark, she scrambled on the ground like a rat toward the pile of boxes. 

She fumbled open the flaps and reached inside, hoping to find a crowbar or something sharp to stab them with. Empty. Arms hugged around a box, Alez hooked the cardboard under her arm and tiptoed back. She set it beneath the vent. The dull thud of weak cardboard on epoxy-lined cement reverberated through the tiny room. She cringed, gritting her teeth as the noise took an age to fade. She counted backward from ten, waiting for the men outside to burst through the door and wrestle her into handcuffs. 

“Four.” 

“Three.” 

She finished the countdown in her head. No alarms. No men. Carefully this time, she adjusted the box to position. As soon as she pressed her weight into the flimsy material, it began to buckle. 

Blight. 

She’d have only one shot at this. Not bothering with stealth, Alez balanced on the makeshift platform and reached for the vent. The box groaned, nearly caving in. She strained her arm for the vent, fingers grazing cool metal. Nearly there. 

Alez sprang down on her haunches, coiling energy in her thighs for enough momentum to reach the vent lines. She jumped. The box collapsed on itself with enough noise that her captors surely heard the clatter this time. But she’d reached her goal. 

Alez dangled from the vent by her fingertips, shimmying her weight to release the opening. Metal bit into her palms hard enough that a low hiss escaped between her teeth. Now, hanging from the ceiling, she realized her plan was faulty at best. 

Kicking into open air, she heaved forward then back, attempting to force the vent to swing open from its hinge. Each pump of her legs caused the rusted screws to whine as the grate gave just a fraction. And each swing proved she would need more than her sold one hundred and fifty-five pounds to force it open. 

Sweat beaded down her already slick pits and gathered in the arm of her shirt. That prickle of anxiety gnawed away at her gut. Precious seconds ticked until as she hung limp, shifting her body every few seconds as her mind raced for plan B. Hopping from one hand to another trying to trick her body into not feeling the pain of metal slicing through calloused palms.

The initial prickle in their stomach rolled into ember as the prospect of defeat encroached her mind. 

Slow heat licking her insides. If she just reached for one fragile tendril—a bit of flame she could coat into melting the grate. But there was always a cost. The fire was a dragon without master. It never did exactly as she called. Each time she’d purposely lured it out, things went wrong. People ended up dead.

With a measured inhale she closed her eyes, ignoring the sting in her bleeding palms. Inside herself, she envisioned the tendrils undulating in her core. Each one distinct from the other in color and shape, but all concatenating in a chorus of fire. She just had to grab one. That would be enough. 

Alez sucked in a breath and dove into the heat, dipping her fingers into a kiln of flame. It was impossible to grasp just one. They all rushed to the forefront—eager for release. In the barrage of embers, Alez scrambled to exit the pit, yanking with her handfuls of fire. She blinked, now back in the cell, as liquid metal dripped down the curve of her nose. What should have been burned flesh to the bone was nothing more than gentle warmth rolling down her face. 

She dropped to the ground, releasing what remained of the grates, the impact stung her heels. As more metal slugged to the floor, she sidestepped and looked up toward the half melted ceiling vent. She had done it. Not completely. But it was more control over the fire than she’d ever wielded.

Her hands, glowing in the dim, were a beacon to her deformity. The metal turned to silver fire at her fingertips. 

She was still counting the fading embers as they cooled when the door crashed open. Light flooded the broom closet. Decaying iron groaned on ancient hinges as figures silhouetted against the light. 

“Get her,” a man shouted, shaking Alez from her trance. She was surprised to find herself still in the room for a moment—the fragile space between tense heartbeats she transported to a plane weeping with star fire.

Now that there was enough light to see, Alez could see the three men surrounding her. The small room felt even smaller as the trio of grown men closed in on her. She spun, searching for escape. One man feinted left and she watched his middle, knowing to keep her eyes on the torso to gauge attack. Alez rolled with his movements and shifted her weight left. She slipped between his hands. His nails carving jagged trails down her bare shoulder. A short man with thick arms lunged forward to wrap her. She shoved his face upward by his chin and drove down to evade his grasp. At the contact his skin hissed as cooling metal branded his neck. 

Without time to check if her hands came away with flesh, she crawled between the space between his legs and toward the door. She was feet from escape when a black combat boot smashed into the side of her head. The force from the impact sent her sprawling, spinning side over side until she landed with her belly up, blinking blood from her eyes. Her chest ached as she attempted to catch her breath. Pinpricks of white flooded her vision like stars flitting through the night. It would be so easy to let the darkness win—to settle into the fire roiling in her gut. They were so warm, so welcoming. She knew that if she left them, they would nestle her in warm blankets. She wouldn’t have to feel what came next. 

One match. Two latch. Three core. 

“Get this filth up.” 

Alez was sure that was the one who kicked her as his foot ground into her temple. His voice carried enough disgust and command that soon the shuffle of military issue boots approached, clapping the cement as the other men drew closer. 

He pinned her with his foot––pressure building in her temples as she shifted the full brunt of his weight on her skull. He adjusted himself and she swore she heard a pop. If her eyes could have shot out of her face to release the pressure, she should have gladly spit them out. 

Flame born thirsty…bar the door.

Blight this. 

She wasn’t going to lie on the ground like some defenseless animal and wait for her beating. She would at least nail one of those bastards in the balls before they carried out whatever plans they had for her.

Alez tried to roll her weight to the right, using what little momentum she could muster. But she flopped back to the ground with a groan. 

The man with the boot on her head laughed. The sound echoed in the cell. His breath reeked enough that she could smell the undigested chunks of garlic still slathered on his tongue. A small, annoying, part of her wondered where he’d gotten the garlic. There were barely enough herbs to season a meal, but then again, these military types always got the best of the scraps. 

Her head still swam with light, and she was certain those chunks were puke riding up her throat. 

Not fear not, my children, the starless night. Burn we bright. The light ours, they bend to. 

“She burned me.” There was a hint of disbelief in that one voice, and fear.

“I saw it. She must have some kind of pyrotech.” 

“We should just kill her. She started the blighted fire.” 

Something in her told her to move again. She tried to lift her neck, but the boot was too heavy, her skull too full of lead. 

Open door. Not fear child. Burn Bright. Burn the night. 

“That’s for the Commander to decide, we have our orders and we’ll stick to them.” 

Rough hands rummaged under her shirt to expose her skin to the cool air, and into her waistband. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What? This filth must have some ration tokens. I got three kids. And I only scrape a little to sweeten my pockets, but I’m not a Blighted raper.” 

“Whatever, just split what you find with me.” 

 She was losing track of the voices, but this last one carried the twinge of fear in his tone. As she lay there, blood oozing from a gash, she definitely needed stitches. The fire in her belly hummed. The melody began in a gentle whisper—almost soothing, as if to tell her “fear not, but the starless night.” They must really have done a number on her head. She was hearing voices again. 

Fear not. Burn Bright. 

The words were a jumble of nonsensical rivulets in her mind. She couldn’t decipher if the voice was her own or something else. 

Steadily the chorus doubled on itself, redoubling and mounting until all that remained were the roaring waves of fire, one after another. Each stronger, pulling her out into its sea. 

She reached for the boot one more time, dark rubies filling her vision, but she was too weak and the pull of darkness too strong.

“I’ll burn the night…”