Pyromantic Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Henry Holt and Company ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Martha Brockenbrough—

  I wouldn’t have made it through this book without you.

  Thank you for being an excellent and silly human.

  (Ficus.)

  1

  SOME THINGS MEND MORE EASILY THAN OTHERS

  FIREBUGS ARE CREATURES of flames and heat, sibling to the phoenix and dragon. Not genetically, but in spirit. So why was it that all it took was a hot summer day in Maine and a stuffy loft to make me want to stick my head in the freezer? If an ice cream truck went by right now, I’d melt the tires and tackle the driver. Not that we had ice cream trucks in our town. Too small. Sylvie said she saw one once, but I’m pretty sure she was just hallucinating. I fanned myself with the papers in my hand and tried to listen to Cade.

  “‘I told you, Ava—you can’t go out if you didn’t finish your…’ I’m sorry, does this say embroidery?” Cade glanced at Sylvie, a dubious expression on his face, and for very good reason. The likelihood of me sitting down to work on some stitchery is about up there with seeing a walrus skydive. No, that wasn’t quite right. Make that an entire herd of skydiving walruses in matching spandex doing a synchronized aerial routine as they plummeted toward the earth. Firebugs and cloth-based handicrafts don’t really go together well. Sylvie ignored Cade, the click of her knitting needles pausing as she counted rows.

  “‘But, Papa, the dance is tonight! If I miss it, I won’t be able to hold my head up in polite society all season!’” I crossed my ankles, my bare feet resting on the paint-splattered drop cloth covering the couch. I wiped sweat off my forehead with the heel of my hand. Maybe if I shaved my head, I’d be cooler.

  Cade knocked my feet down. “As if you’re fit for polite society now, Rat.” I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “Stick to the script, please,” Sylvie responded, her voice a singsong. The clicking resumed as she returned to her work. I couldn’t quite tell what she was making. Knowing Sylvie, it could be anything from a cape to a life-size Dalek cozy.

  Since we’d had to rebuild Broken Spines after it was burned down, we’d expanded upward. The bookshop now had a kitchenette and employee lounge, as well as a spare room that we were probably going to use for storage (if you listened to Cade) or a deluxe napping station (if you listened to me and Sylvie). We were going to win, especially after Cade saw the badass bunk beds I’d had the dwarves install already. I’d always wanted bunk beds.

  My new boss, Alistair, had decided that even though he wasn’t part of the Coterie when all this happened, the organization should help foot some of the rebuilding costs. I was grateful for this generosity, though I didn’t tell him that. Because even with our insurance money and the back pay Alistair had given me and my team, we couldn’t afford dwarf builders. They’re the best, and quite frankly, we can’t afford the best. We can’t even afford the second best. I’m not sure we could swing the top ten.

  Cade put his set of pages on the counter. “I now regret encouraging you to read Jane Austen.”

  I gently rested mine on my chest, letting my hand hang down. Sylvie had worked hard on the script, so I didn’t burn the pages, which was tempting. Since Sylvie didn’t know I was a firebug, I couldn’t burn them right that minute anyway. Not without my secret getting out, and only two humans knew what I was—Cade and my ex-boyfriend, He Who Must Never Be Mentioned Ever If You Don’t Want a Fiery Reckoning Brought Down Upon You. I needed to keep it that way.

  “I guess I should be happy you didn’t demand we put a pianoforte up here.” Cade picked his pages back up.

  “I considered that,” Sylvie said. “But it would ruin the flow. And I couldn’t find one within the budget.” Sylvie had taken over the organization and decoration of the upstairs space. Everything was purchased and positioned for maximum efficiency. I’m not kidding. She’d used graph paper and a scientific calculator and read some interior design books that had come into the bookshop.

  Sylvie is plagued by extreme cuteness. Today she’d braided her hair into a crown and placed tiny blue flowers in strategic places. Her purple, girl-cut T-shirt featured a glittery kitten with a jet pack. Her voice is cute, her smile is cute, and her disposition is sunny. Even I had the urge to pat her head occasionally. In contrast, I was wearing a tank top with a tear at the bottom. My jeans shorts had seen better days, and about all I could manage with my hair was a loose ponytail. There were no strategic flowers, nor would it have occurred to me to use any. My clothes leaned toward the darker end of the color spectrum in general, and the only glitter I had on me had come off Sylvie’s shirt when she’d hugged me earlier—something she’d gotten in the habit of doing ever since I came back from my battle with Venus. Not that Sylvie knew anything about what had happened. We’d told her that I’d fallen victim to an aggressive stomach flu. Whatever the cause, seeing me emaciated and worn out had scared her. So now I had to put up with random hugging because I was Sylvie’s friend.

  I hadn’t exactly sought out the relationship. Since I grew up on the run with my mom, people my age, especially normal human people, mystify me. I haven’t had much contact with the completely human world. I wouldn’t have known how to make friends with Sylvie even if I’d wanted to, but for whatever reason, she’d decided she liked me. And you don’t argue with Sylvie.

  Sylvie was an employee, yes. She was young. But she also ran the bookshop with a tiny iron fist when she was around, and we didn’t argue. Sylvie was damn good at fixing problems, and she’d recently decided that Cade and I needed to be fixed.

  “What are you making, anyway?” I asked.

  She didn’t look up from her project. “Don’t change the subject, Ava. You two need help easing from ward and guardian to father and daughter.” Cade crossed his eyes at me at the same time I stuck my tongue out at him. “I can see you, you know.” We both got a stern glare from her before she continued. “Role playing is a proven tool that psychologists use to improve communication and rebuild relationships. I still think it’s a good idea.”

  “It’s not the role playing I’m objecting to—” At Cade’s snort, I amended my statement. “Okay, I don’t completely think role playing is ridiculous, and I appreciate your help, Sylvie, but if I’m having a difficult time with the D-word, what makes you think I can manage an unscripted Papa? Or would want to?”

  “I love it when you call me Big Papa,” Cade said, taking a sip of his iced tea. He frowned. “That sounded less disturbing in my head.”

  “Well, it sounded super creepy outside it.” Sylvie had her back to Cade, so I flicked my fingers and the remnants of his iced tea went up in steam. I pretended to look at my nails so I wouldn’t see his disapproving look. I wasn’t supposed to “play” with my powers. (He calls it play. I call it practice.)

  Cade grabbed the pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge and poured himself another cup.

  Sylvie held her glass out to Cade, shaking it in case he hadn’t noticed it was empty. “So what word would work for you? Fat
her? Pa? Daddy?”

  “I rather like Cade, actually.” I shook my own glass for a refill. Cade very pointedly looked at me while he put the pitcher back. That’s what I got for evaporating his drink.

  Sylvie shot me her own version of the disapproval look. Apparently I was just racking up the censure points with everyone today. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “Cynical and whatnot. You’ve been calling him Cade your whole life. You’re denying him his title—one he’s earned. It’s a respect thing. You have a chance now that you never thought you’d have—you get to call someone Dad. Don’t toss it away.”

  “Daaaaaad, she’s making me talk about my feelings. Make it stop.” I really threw the whine into the last word, then grinned at Sylvie. “There. Is that better?”

  Sylvie dropped her knitting in her lap with a motion that was part pout, part exasperated sigh. “You’re deflecting.”

  “And I’m going to hide all your books on psychology. Clearly you can’t use your powers for good.”

  “This is for good!”

  Cade sighed. “Children, stop.” He held up a ten-dollar bill. “If I offer this money on the altar of the ice cream gods, may I have a few minutes of peace?”

  Now that was a plan I could get behind. I bounded to my feet and snatched the ten out of his hand. “Mine.” I one-armed him into a hug and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Sylvie huffed. “You did that on purpose to mock me and my script.”

  Cade shook his head. “No, she just wasn’t thinking about it because I offered her ice cream. Food is a large motivating factor with my daughter.”

  I scrunched up my nose and squinted my eyes, a face Cade likes to tell me will stick one day. “Nope, still feels weird.” I ignored Cade’s sigh and grabbed Sylvie’s arm. “Come on. Ice cream beckons. You can come back to your meddling later.”

  She pulled back. “But—”

  “Ice cream, Sylvie. Did you hear that part? The knitting can wait. It’s wicked hot. Surface-of-the-sun hot. Besides, I’m sure there are about five other things you can try to change about me on the way there.”

  Sylvie reluctantly came with me, her face still pinched. “Eleven, not five. I’ve made a list.”

  “I’m offended.”

  Cade’s voice floated down the stairs after us. “No you’re not. You’re surprised it’s only eleven.” Damn it, he was right.

  We got frappes, then sat on a bench in the sun playing Spot the Flatlander.

  “I spot a couple from away. Notice their khaki plumage and her full face of makeup. If those aren’t summer people, I’ll eat my shirt. Fifteen points.” Sylvie was from here, so she pronounced it “summah people.” It was easy to spot the people from away. Locals were working. They didn’t have sweaters knotted around their necks, nor were they driving ten miles under the speed limit to gawk at our “provincial” village. Driving can be a real pain this time of year. You find yourself organizing your whole life around avoiding left turns.

  “Damn, I missed them.” I scanned the crowd, trying to catch up. Sylvie was winning. I was a little distracted by my phone, which kept buzzing with incoming texts. “Hey, there’s one. He forgot to take off his lobster bib. That’s worth twenty points at least.” The man was also overdressed, and I was willing to bet that if we got closer, we’d smell bug spray.

  “Either his family hasn’t mentioned it, or he’s wearing it on purpose. That’s got to be worth at least twenty-five.” She grabbed my arm. “Children in matching ‘I Heart Maine’ T-shirts! Three kids, that’s ten points each, plus a five-point bonus.”

  “Bonus?”

  “That boy is over twelve and his parents managed to get that shirt on him. That’s worth a bonus. I am slaughtering you.” She was almost bouncing with glee.

  My phone went off again, the change in my pocket making the vibration extra loud.

  “Are you going to respond to him?”

  “Who?” I asked, but it was a stupid question and Sylvie treated it with the dignity it deserved—a scowl. “I’m busy.”

  “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know,” I said, holding my frappe against the back of my neck. I’d done my best to hide from Sylvie that Lock had asked me out. She’d always had a huge crush on him. But somehow she’d pulled it out of me, in all its embarrassing glory. After a lecture on my initial boneheaded handling of the whole thing, she hadn’t missed a single opportunity to point out my continued poor approach to fixing the rift.

  The rift seemed like it would be pretty hard to fix, though. Bianca, Alistair’s right-hand girl and general pain in my ass, had asked Lock out shortly after our debacle. Bianca is a caulbearer, and everything I’m not. Her power isn’t flashy like mine—she can throw a veil and hide people or things. She’s calculating, mindlessly loyal to Alistair, and pretty in a pixie-like way. According to the rumors that had filtered back from Lock through Ezra and eventually Sylvie, the date hadn’t gone well and they’d decided they were better as friends, but somehow that was worse. I could easily have stepped aside and been noble if he’d dated Bianca. It would have hurt, but I could have managed if that’s what would have made Lock happy.

  Bianca as a friend, though, was a lot harder to deal with. It felt like Lock had instantly replaced me in his life. For years it had been me, Lock, and Ezra. Quite frankly, I didn’t know how to deal with a new person coming in and screwing up the dynamic. And since I didn’t know what to do, I ignored the problem, which meant ignoring Lock.

  “He thinks you’re punishing him.”

  “I know,” I said, my exasperation thick.

  “So talk to him.” I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I knew Stern Sylvie was talking.

  “It’s not that simple.” I finished my frappe, the straw making an undignified sputtering noise. “And why aren’t you mad at me, anyway? I thought Lock was your one true love.”

  Sylvie shrugged. “The fickleness of youth.”

  I shoved my sunglasses back onto the bridge of my nose. “It’s almost your birthday. You’re only about a year younger than me, and you don’t have a fickle bone in your body.”

  She tossed the remnants of her frappe into the trash and helped me up. “Friends don’t fight over boys, Ava. Lock likes you and you’re both important to me, so I’ve moved on.” She linked her arm in mine. “It was really very big of me and quite dramatic, and your continued refusal to talk to him is ruining the effect. So stop digging your hole deeper, and text the poor boy back.”

  I grunted in a noncommittal fashion, which she seemed to take for a yes. “What?” I asked when she wouldn’t stop staring at me.

  “You know you can trust me, right? That you can tell me anything?”

  I quashed the urge to fidget. The thing is, I did trust Sylvie, but that didn’t mean I could tell her my secret. Bottom line, Sylvie is human. To tell her about my power and the Coterie would endanger us both, and I like my friend too much for that. “Of course,” I lied, fixing a fake smile to my face.

  I thought I saw a flash of disappointment cross her features, but it was so fast, I barely caught it.

  “Okay,” Sylvie said. “Well, we’d better get back. That shop won’t organize itself.”

  I snorted. “You know Cade is perfectly capable of setting up a little bit of furniture, right? Especially since you already gave him a diagram.”

  Sylvie patted my arm. “Sure he can. But if your dad sets it up, then I’m just going to have to fix it, so I might as well do it the first time.”

  “You’re awfully charming for a despot, you know that, right?”

  “I resent that. It doesn’t have to be my way, it just has to be the right way.” She stepped carefully over a line of ants.

  “Which just so happens to be your way.”

  “If you can find a more efficient manner of doing things, then I will happily apply that method.”

  I laughed, giving up on the argument. We were occasionally able to convince Sylvie that she wasn’
t right about something, but it happened so infrequently that it seemed like never. If Cade hadn’t started writing down these triumphs in a small notebook in the back office, I wouldn’t believe those events ever occurred.

  We were busy when we got back to the shop, and then it was dinnertime. Cade ordered pizza for us and the dwarves. It had been impossible to hide the dwarves from Sylvie. She was at the shop even when she wasn’t scheduled to be. Cade and I had come up with all kinds of explanations for her but hadn’t used any of them so far. She had lots of questions for them about their work, and the dwarves seemed endlessly patient with Sylvie—far more than they were with anyone else. But it was odd that she hadn’t said anything.

  Between the work and the pizza, the night flew by, and before I knew it, I was at home and in bed and it was too late to text Lock back. At least, that’s what I told myself when I ignored my phone yet again.

  *

  ALISTAIR’S VOICE sounded tinny and far away when I answered the phone the next morning. “I need you in Boston,” he said without preamble. I readjusted my cell, which was pinched between my shoulder and my ear. My hands were full of books. I guess I could have gotten one of those hands-free things, but then I would’ve had to punch myself in the face. I hated the people who came into the bookshop with them on. They looked like they’d had the bits of plastic surgically implanted into their ears, and I always wondered if the people ever took them out, even to sleep. Sylvie was convinced that those customers were secretly cyborgs.

  I slid a paperback onto one of our brand-new shelves. Broken Spines would reopen in record time because of the dwarves. We could have simply moved into a new building—it certainly would have been cheaper—but we all liked the original location. So Alistair fast-tracked all the permits in addition to furnishing a motivated group of builders. And if my small town of Currant, Maine, had thought it was weird that we had height-challenged builders who worked through the night, well, no one said anything.

  The new building was gorgeous. Brick on the outside, beautifully carved wood on the inside. I traced a finger along the thin wooden vine cut into the shelf next to me; the veins of each leaf stood out in amazing detail. You couldn’t find work like this anymore—not by humans, at any rate. It was worth every single penny. They even built a cat tree for Horatio that looked so much like a real tree, I expected a dryad to take up residence. Gnarled roots sank into the floor, making it appear as if the trunk were growing out of it. Branches twisted up, the stained-glass leaves shining a brilliant emerald. A new skylight sat above it, and when the light hit the tree, it cast a fractured green pattern on the floor and walls, making you feel like you were caught in a constant Technicolor leaf fall. The dwarves said the leaves would shift color when it came time for autumn. I couldn’t wait. I was almost glad that Venus had burned the other building down.