Page 5 of Spitfire

A snort instantly rips through the air. The sound should irritate me, but instead it causes my stomach to clench tightly. "One day, Lyssa, that huge stick you have up your ass will either kill ya, or hopefully dislodge itself. I'm hoping for the latter, for your sake. Life's too short and ugly to be so miserable." He reaches forward and snatches the document right out of my hands, and proceeds to ignore me as he reads over the results. "Ashmaker's struck again. Nothing new, fire again, no obvious evidence left at the scene, and no tracks leading us to how he got away. At least this cunt is consistent."

I realize my mouth is still hanging open at his audacity and quickly shut it, my eyes narrowing on him, even though he's not looking at me. "Do not refer to him by that ridiculous media moniker." My voice drops an octave, steady and sharp. "He is far too methodical to change his call sign."

A phantom ache claws painfully behind my temples, dragging a bitter wave of nausea up my throat. "It serves two purposes," I strain out, the words tasting bitter and sounding harsh to my ears. "It destroys the evidence and marks his territory, letting us know it was him."

Even as I declare it, something prickles deep in my mind. A dark heat stirs with an image of a ravenous fire licking up high walls, and arching toward a blackened ceiling. My skin flushes feverishly, slick with sudden sweat. In my mind's eye, I can see a delicate hand reaching towards it, fine-boned fingers dancing above the flames' inferno. The slender fingers dance over the sparks, unburned, yet coaxing the flames as if directing a symphony. The amber light bleeds into a deep, seductive crimson, painting the skin in foreboding shadows. I can smell the heavy, choking ash even though I know that shouldn't be possible. I feel the suffocating warmth press against my chest, stealing my breath until my lungs scream with the need for clean oxygen. The hairs on my arms stand on end, wired to a terror that feels far too real and much like overwhelming desire.

"Jesus, Lyssa, where the hell do you keep disappearing to?" Garnier's voice cracks like a whip, violently ripping me from the fiery abyss. The vision shatters. The hypnotic crimson flames instantly vanish, swallowed by a sudden, suffocating dark void of nothingness. I grasp desperately for the edges of the thought, but it dissolves into a thick, poisonous fog behind my eyes. Something is watching me from inside that mist. Something vital, buried just inches out of reach. The sheer terror of forgetting it leaves me paralyzed, and the air becomes trapped in my lungs as my chest seizes.

A low, jagged breath rips from my lungs, thick with the taste of my own failure. God, the sheer, suffocating fucking rage of it. Rage at the evidence slipping through my fingers like water. Rage at the monster executing men out there, carving messages meant exclusively for my eyes. Worst of all, rage at the devastating, lethal scent of Garnier. He smells of expensive bourbon and sin. A textbook, high-profile degenerate I have absolutely no right to crave. The dark, electric current snapping between us is a match waiting to drop, a fire capable of incinerating everything around us, and blowing up my hard-fought control. It's the absolute last thing I need right now.

"Are you ever fucking silent?" I growl, the friction in my throat sounding dangerous. "Like, even for a single second? I'm trying to untangle a goddamn slaughter to see what we're missing." I slam my hand down on the edge of the desk, the sound loud in the suddenly silent office. "Maybe try holding your breath. It might help." My words strike him like a physical blow. A sudden, sharp flush stains his high, whiskered cheekbones. His heavy, sinful lips lock into a tight, displeased line, his eyes instantly darkening with wounded fury.

Take it back, the terrified, desperate part of my mind screams. Apologize.

A sharp, fractured breath scrapes past my lips, thick still with the imaginary smoke still trapped in my lungs. I can't apologize. To soften now would dissolve the fragile, iron-clad border I've forced between us. Jasper's jaw locks, a hard, white knot tightening beneath his dark stubble. The brutal friction of his grinding teeth echoes in the heavy silence. If I possessed a shred of empathy, the raw tension in his frame might worry me, but I'm entirely hollowed out.

"He's hunting the margins," Jasper replies, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register that instantly has me on guard. "Picking secluded spots to bleed and torture them, using fire to burn away any evidence. None of them are ever more than twenty miles from their homes or workplaces. I've cross-referenced the files, Lyssa, and there's zero visual connection. The guy before this was a dental hygienist. This one's a youth pastor. Before that, we had a professor of psychology."

"Child psychology," I cut in, the correction sharp as a razor.

"Huh?" He drags a rough hand across his jaw, his piercing dark blue eyes locking onto mine. The distance metaphorically between us is now an ice-filled chasm. It needs to stay that way. I cannot afford a single thaw with a man who tastes like temptation and ruin.

"There's a difference..." I start, but the sheer exhaustion bruising the skin beneath his eyes catches in my throat. I swallow the rest of the sentence. It doesn't matter anyway. Not in the grand scheme of this nightmare. The killer isn't courting Jasper. Every ashes-and-crimson horror, every twisted breadcrumb, they're a depraved love letter written solely for me. While that realization should leave me trembling with fear, it also sparks something dark and violently exhilarating deep inside my chest. Something that sings to me with a siren's song.

"If you say so, Lyssa." Jasper lets out a heady, gravelly groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat as he rubs the back of his neck. "Listen, I'm going to get a few hours of shut-eye. I suggest you do the same, then we meet back here. We'll rip apart the evidence from the last few kills. Maybe he's leaving us a clue we're just not seeing yet."

You're not seeing it. To me, it is screaming from the pages.

I tilt my head, a mute gesture of agreement, and watch the slow, confident rise of his shoulders as he gets up and walks away. The scent of him lingers in the stagnant air, a cruel reminder of the heat I'm denying myself. I glance around the bullpen. The desks are mostly deserted, the ambient hum of the computers the only company left.

My back and neck scream with a jagged, white-hot tension. I should listen to him. I should go home, but I know the second I lay my head down in the dark, the fire will find me again. The delicate, unbothered fingers dancing in the flames will haunt my closed eyelids. My gaze drops back to the discarded crime scene report. What are you trying to tell me? Where are you leading me?

Dammit, I have to hunt this maniac down before he takes another victim. The question that scratches at the raw edges of my mind is, why me? Why is Jasper completely invisible to him? This beast isn't just killing; he's courting. He wants something from me, and I'm betting it's not just to throw his ass in a maximum security facility and throw away the key.

He wants a game of cat and mouse. As the silence of the office closes in around me, I'm no longer sure which one I am.

FIVE

ASHMAKER

The dark, narrow alley swallows all sound as the cold rain clings to the brick walls in slick, weeping ribbons. It carries the city's filth toward storm drains that gurgle like something ravenous beneath the asphalt. Every distant, flickering streetlamp leaves pockets of darkness between pools of jaundiced, eerie light, turning each step into a gamble. George Weston moves blindly through the maze, entirely unaware that he has already been consumed by the dark.

I watch him stumble, his erratic breaths broken apart into short, ragged gasps, each inhale scraping his throat raw. Amusement ripples low in my gut as his polished leather shoes slip again and again against the wet concrete. For what must be the hundredth time, he glances over his shoulder, the white of his eyes prominent. Nothing greets him, only the void. Only the rhythmic, mocking echo of his own panic.

"Who's there?" he shouts, voice cracking. "Show yourself!"

The shadows hide a multitude of beautiful sins. Sins that must be punished and cleansed from the earth. Corruption leads to rot, and rot becomes a deadly cancer that ruins everything it touches unless it is meticulously excised. They never understand the exquisite necessity of the service I perform, but their ungratefulness only fuels the heat in my blood. I am their avenging angel. I stain my hands crimson, so the rest of the world can sleep in immaculate innocence.

I let him gain a few yards, savoring the way unease bleeds from his pores like a rank, musk perfume. He hasn't spotted me yet, but his primitive survival instincts are screaming, frantically trying to warn him of the apex predator closing the distance. They won't save him, not from me, my wrath, or my justice. In my world, he is the fly, and I am the spider. He has willingly tangled himself in my web, and the thrill of the trap is intoxicating. It's now hunt or be hunted.

I melt from shadow to shadow in absolute silence, the heavy handle of my dagger locked tightly in my fist. My black tactical clothing makes me a ghost, a fluid extension of the night. Ahead of me, George trips over his own momentum, slamming to his knees with a sickening crack. A cry of agony rips through the silence.

"Fuck! Who's there?" His trembling voice fills my ears with the sweetest music. Soon enough, I will have him singing a masterpiece of ruin, but I am not done playing yet. He hasn't bled nearly enough to satisfy this hunger.

"I... I have a gun..." A pathetic, desperate lie. Even if he possessed one, a creature like George wouldn't know how to wield it against a nightmare. No, George Weston's weapons of choice have never been a gun. He much prefers other techniques of torture and pain. They are the kind that leave both physical and invisible scars for the remainder of your life. The kind of violations that ensure a child never feels safe in their own skin or mind again. George destroys lives, young lives, leaves them hollowed out, and moves on to the next victim with a pristine smile. He thinks his wealth and family name shield him from consequence. They're useless armor against my brand of justice.

A whisper of a laugh answers his threat. It isn't loud or manic, but a soft, heavy breath that drifts through the alley like smoke, impossible to place, just like me. He lurches unsteadily back to his feet, his spine slamming flat against the wet, rough brick as he holds his hands out in a useless platitude. "Please... I have money, take my wallet."