Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

Prologue. The Purpose of One Life.

Fire.

How it dances so beautifully without instruction.

Its choreography, an accident of nature, guided by wind, by God, by whatever it delights in consuming.

A guiltless monster, growing without limit, the envy of any creature who has thirsted beyond their means, who has craved a true freedom outside the intolerable restraints of morality.

Feeding on whatever it finds until there is no more, neither willing nor capable of distinguishing good from bad. It just eats.

These were the thoughts of Tristan twenty-seven years ago in a small Texas suburb as he calmly watched his lover’s house burn.

Kyle Amos’s house.

Within, the corpses of Kyle’s mother, father, and dear little brother, none of whom deserved to die. The fire paid no mind. It was only hungry, and Kyle’s life was ever so tasty.

“Is it done?”

The question came from Tristan’s eternal accomplice in all things terrible. She is Wendy. Voice, thin and frosty, tinny notes on a vibraphone. Her shape, enshrouded and shadowy, as it often is, only giving a faint hint of perhaps a prepubescent girl. That was a gift—the true sight of Wendy was horrifying.

To her question, Tristan tilted his head and, edged with exhaustion, said, My dear Wendy, the work is never done .

“Does the Kyle boy await you elsewhere?”

Inconsolably. In a two-star motel. I told him to count sheep. The star rating is rounded up, by the way .

“Star rating? I know not your strange terms.”

This is why I like you, Wendy .

The fire raged greedily on, biting into wood, licking at the trees. Its twenty tongues reached into the sky like the house and three lives weren’t enough; it also desired the stars. Neighbors had already gathered outside. The distant sirens of fire trucks racing there to put an end to the short and glorious life of the fire wailed through the smoky night air.

No one could see them.

That was thanks to Wendy’s unique ability to bend light. Or swallow it. The exact way her talent functioned was, like many things about Wendy, unclear. But it hid the two of them in plain sight, blending them seamlessly into the shadows of trees, mailboxes, vehicles, and all matters of suburban dullness.

You must return soon , Tristan reminded her. The trip back to Las Vegas will be lengthy, and Lord Markadian always notices when his toys have gone missing for too long .

“Especially when that toy is you,” she returned.

Tristan shrugged. He will forget about me in time .

“You underestimate his love for you.”

He will love another in time, too .

“You overestimate the power of time.”

Lord Markadian has enough to worry about, governing the west region, minding rogue immortals and Ferals and witches and other pests of the night, not to mention the pandering directors who fight for his love themselves … He is never in short supply of fodder for his ego. By the way, thank you for your assistance on this night . You facilitate the act of burning away all trace of three unfortunate human corpses with unsettling finesse . Are you by chance a serial killer in some other reality or parallel existence? … Or a pyromaniac, at the very least … ?

“Three?” asked Wendy.

Tristan stopped. It was a single-worded question—Three. Yet that single word cut every thread of Tristan’s flippant calmness.

He returned the word: Three …?

“Two corpses I sense yet,” she said. “Not three.”

The restless beast that was the fire danced and squirmed, flinging out from one window, waltzing into another, laughing, mirthful, chewing upon the walls, sharpening its teeth on the latticework, swimming into the front flowerbed.

Three.

The boy was found in the fiery belly of the beast, sprawled out on the kitchen floor, skin and hair covered in black soot, like the tiles and outdated cabinetry that surrounded his body. He was bloodied and battered, a gash down his cheek. A single arm remained outstretched, like he made a final reach for the back door and gave up. Fire glowed upon his skin from the mouth of the nearby archways, shattering, crackling.

Tristan gazed down at him. The boy turned two weak eyes upward. Eyes, just like Kyle’s. Innocent. Kind as candy. Afraid.

Alive.

The boy’s staring persisted, his sweet eyes burning like the fire as he watched Tristan. Was it the first time they met? Was Tristan to be the last face Kyle’s dear little brother ever saw?

It was not supposed to end this way.

With a brushing of Tristan’s cool fingertips over the boy’s face, he put him to sleep at once, thanks to his gift—the Lull.

“You endure this environment for that boy?” asked Wendy with absolute apathy, appearing over him like a dark thought. “The fire is deadly to you. And yet you are here.”

I did not anticipate this , said Tristan.

“And yet.”

The boy lay in Tristan’s arms now, this thirteen-year-old boy, this smaller version of Kyle, this brave, strong mortal—stronger than Tristan gave him credit for, apparently stronger so far than the gluttonous fire that slowly closed in on them.

I did not anticipate this , repeated Tristan. I … I did not …

It is quite possible that he never before in his long life felt such responsibility as he did in this moment. He was certain he would prove to be the monster he always thought himself to be and decide to just leave the boy right there, helpless. But what if the boy still survived? Didn’t he already prove himself strong? What would he say when questioned about tonight? What would he recall? Tristan and Kyle’s future crumbled away by the second at the possibilities of what leaving this boy alive could do.

He was not part of Tristan’s plan—nor the selfish desires that so fueled Tristan’s every dream of a life alone with Kyle, his new immortal love, who waited for him even now, crying into a musty pillow in a two-star motel over the family he lost.

Or thought he lost.

“Tristan, the humans approach. Choose,” said Wendy. “It will be easy. To leave him here. Let the fire have its due meal.”

Tristan could still taste Kyle’s blood on his lips from when they last kissed. He could also taste the tears. Nothing about this night had been easy.

But the boy has survived so much already …

“You mean to save the mortal?”

Kyle cannot know . Kyle can never know .

“A secret is trickier to keep when its heart still beats.”

I’m afraid you can’t truly understand . You don’t feel anything .

“It is why my advice is best. Emotion is a habit.”

I envy you .

“Leave the boy. Who will know?”

I will know . I will know every time I touch Kyle … every time he touches me, I will know what I did … what I could have done .

“Why do you care?” Wendy’s face was suddenly so close, or rather, the void where her face belonged. Everything around them burned. Everything around them hurt. “What is it about this Kyle Amos that so unravels the Tristan I used to know … the Tristan who danced on graves until dawn … who would dare to drink the blood of demons … Is he still in there? Say a word. We leave, he burns, sent to rest in the place beyond places where dead humans go, resting with his mommy and daddy. Perhaps it is even the more merciful option to end him now, if emotion is so important to you. He will age. You and Kyle will not. He will die, yet you and Kyle will persist. Say a word, it is over.”

Tristan felt as if he was holding Kyle in his arms right now. Kyle and his happiness. Kyle and his freedom. Kyle and all the years they would soon enjoy together.

I did not anticipate this , said Tristan one last time.

The fire laughed at his plight as the roof above the front door fell, collapsing inward with a shattering screech that rang out into the night like a witch’s cackle.

Wendy’s mouth was by his ear. “Say a word, it is done.”

Tristan slowly parted his lips.

The words he uttered, however, surprised them both.

“Why do you insist on this?” asked Wendy an hour later. “Why the effort? It seems such a wasteful risk, even for you.”

They were in the distant woods, far from the fiery scene. The stars glinted over them through the crisscrossing arms and long, spindly fingers of trees. The boy slept before Tristan, still reeking of smoke. But at least he breathed, even if faintly. He must be kept in a safe place until I know what to do with him … far away from anything, from anyone .

“Far away from you and his own brother, too?”

Tristan could not peel his eyes from the boy’s sleeping face as it slowly drew in one feeble breath at a time. So vulnerable. So easy to end. Like all mortal things. Find this safe place for him, he said. For all his authority, his commands were singed with a sad sort of desperation. Keep him there . Do not let him be found .

“This boy you just rescued … he is a prisoner now?”

Better a prisoner of ours than a prisoner of Death’s . Find a place, Wendy, a safe place . I must return to Kyle before he catches a disease from the two-star-motel bed sheets . It is more possible than you think .

“It is done,” said Wendy. “The place I know may not be so optimal for a mortal, but it will be safe from all eyes.”

Not the House of Vegasyn , Tristan said at once, nor the depths of Hell, or Hades, or wherever it is you say you once served . Find a peaceful place, a human place … somewhere by a pretty lake, perhaps .

“You add more constraints. You complicate my task.”

Only until I know what to do with him .

Wendy moved to the boy so slowly, she seemed to float. As she gazed down at him, the void that was her face slowly began to form eyes that seemed kind and gentle. Tristan realized that was a strategic and intentional choice. Should the boy wake, he ought to be comforted by the sight of her, not traumatized.

I will be forever in your debt , Tristan insisted, stepping back.

Wendy stared at the boy’s face with her unnaturally gentle eyes, as if practicing her humanity. “It is I who am currently still in yours,” returned Wendy evenly, “and, thus, you owe me not a thing for this infringement upon the dire laws of your Makers. After all, our contract is still intact. We are but partners in fire.”

Tristan smiled. You’re so cute with your wordings . I wonder if you would someday write my biography . It would be fairly boring in parts, so you should warn the reader to stick it out until the end .

“I will signal in our usual way once sanctuary for the mortal is secured. I will signal in our unusual way should trouble arise.”

I hope never to hear from you, then .

Wendy met his eyes. With their artificial kindness, it was an unsettling sight. “You are an enigma, Tristan. I hate that.”

Everyone does .

In a flash, Wendy and the boy were gone. After he spent a moment to collect himself in the tranquility of the dark woods, Tristan left to return to Kyle at the two-star motel miles away. He prayed he would not hear from her for a long while yet.

But it would be merely three nights later that he felt the burning at the nape of his neck. The bad kind.

“It could not be avoided,” said Wendy. Tristan met her by the train tracks that cut through a nearby forest. “It is done.”

Please tell me you are practicing the human emotion of humor .

“I am not capable of humor. The boy did not trust me. The effect of the human eyes I projected backfired. He attempted to escape five times. He was certain I meant to end his life, an odd belief to hold when it was my only given charge to protect it. On the fifth escape, he made it the farthest … and was then seen.”

Seen?

“And thus, six human lives paid the price for their curiosity, six I could not spare, and thus, cleanup was necessary to do, and thus, the attention of a Dallasade scout was caught, and thus—”

I’ve heard enough , Tristan decided, dropping to his knees at the edge of the rail. Where is he now?

“In the hands of Director Cindy of the Dallasade domain. I made my recommendation to her already. It was, as I calculated, the greatest chance of survival the boy would have.”

Tristan lifted his eyes. You made a recommendation?

“For him to be sent to the House of Vegasyn, to be kept in the humans cells for the remainder of his days alive. It is done.”

Tristan closed his eyes. He could imagine it all. The fear that sent the boy’s heart galloping each time he woke, his mind racing with nightmares of his family dying again, nightmares he would not easily be able to distinguish from reality. Wendy advised it would’ve been a more merciful option to let him die in the house with his parents, to let the boy join them in their eternal rest, to let him go. Tristan defied that mercy. He also refused to include him in his future with Kyle, his new creation, his new love …

Tristan was to blame for everything.

“There is no chance he can be freed again,” said Wendy. “I have considered each option available to me. It is not possible.”

Of course it isn’t , agreed Tristan wearily, slowly collapsing.

“Have we reached an end of this rebellion?” asked Wendy, as lightly as if they were returning from a trip to the store, from a tedious Tuesday afternoon errand. “Will you give up your life with Kyle and finally return to your post at Lord Markadian’s side? He thinks of you each day, demanding your whereabouts, his sanity crumbling. There are others who wish to replace you, eagerly plotting, many who hope you will never return. Do you not desire to disappoint them? Would it not be … ‘fun’ …?”

Tristan collapsed dramatically upon the tracks, face painted in moonlight, splintered wood and metal digging into his back.

Nothing will be fun anymore , he worried. Nothing at all .

“Put the boy out of your mind, it is done. What will you do now, Tristan? Decide.”

Tristan prayed a train would come. He prayed it would be so kind as to crush him, each and every car. It would surely hurt less than the guilt weighing so generously upon his chest.

“The dawn approaches. The night has run out. Decide.”

Yes, the sun was another option. It would hurt more than the train or the guilt, but perhaps it was what he deserved.

Nevertheless, he knew it was time. He had to make the best of the hand he had drawn, even if his only present desire was to burn every last card he held.

So he made his choice: You have a new mission, Wendy, if not your final one, perhaps, before I disappear into my new life .

“Wendy is listening.”

You will oversee the boy’s placement in the cells . Assign him the highest one you can find—above a thousand, if you can manage . One of the highest numbers, from whom we never draw blood, from whom we never drink, entirely out of sight, tucked away like a secret …

“You wish him to rot?” she asked. “This is how you mean to save him? To rob him of his only purpose left?”

No … He still has a purpose, yet . Tristan gave up on waiting for the train or the sun. He rose to his feet, faced Wendy. And I suspect that someday, I will learn what it is .

“I fear I am running out of ways to serve you. It is only a matter of time before your every effort is undone. Your act of sparing the boy may have cut your immortal life short.”

If only I could be so lucky , returned Tristan thoughtfully, then strolled into the night.