Chapter 2

LENNOX

"...the investigation continues as police say they still don't know the exact cause of the fire, but foul play is a possibility. As you can see behind me, neighbors and people in the area have gathered around, devastated by the sight of this once-historic building, which has now been reduced to nothing more than ash. Here is a short clip of the fire's intensity that responders arrived at in the late hours of the night."

Leaning forward, I grab the remote from the table and click the mute button before sinking back into the couch's soft cushions. My eyes fixate on the roaring flames as they engulf the once-white walls of the Magnolia Lane Plantation, a famous historical landmark in New Orleans. It's a popular tourist attraction and an essential piece of the city's history, which means it's a building that even I wouldn't have risked lighting up.

Not that I haven't thought about it.

The older, more meaningful buildings always make for the prettiest fires, mainly if you know what you're doing. Where you start the fire is more important than you think, especially if your intent is to burn it down entirely, leaving nothing behind for the police to find.

But Magnolia Lane's history is one that the police and the media won't let go of so quickly. They won't rest until they find the cause of the fire. There's guaranteed to be a full-blown investigation, during which they will study the soot and burn patterns throughout the old home.

Unlike me, it will take them some time to figure out the cause—the motive.

Being a Pyro myself, I only needed to see the fire and how the flames lick up the sides of the walls in the news clip, bursting through the thin, old windows on the second floor, to know that this fire was set. It was intentional.

And fuck if it isn't a rousing fucking fire.

Lifting my steaming mug of black coffee to my lips, I take a sip, savoring the rich, dark-roasted flavor before swallowing it. I can't tear my eyes from the reporter's video footage of the blaze. Whoever started it used gasoline. A lot of it, too. The blue flicker within the flames means it's hot. Really fucking hot. You don't get heat like that without some accelerant, especially not in a house as old as Magnolia Lane.

Gasoline is my personal favorite. Mainly because it's old school and toxic, but I've yet to find another accelerant that gets the fire as hot as quickly as gasoline. The hotter the better. There's something about watching the blue tinge as it laps at the bright orange and yellow flames that gets my dick hard. I can't explain it. All I know is nothing gets me going like staring into those 3500-degree flames, knowing I started them. Watching how they cling to the gasoline trail left behind instantly igniting anything and anyone in their path.

Knowing regardless of how grand or significant something is. I can burn it down.

Destroy it.

Until all that's left behind is a pile of charred wood and thick layers of grey ash.

"Really? Was watching one of New Orleans's most historic buildings burn to the ground in person not enough for you? You have to relive it on the news the next morning," Greyson snaps as he enters my tiny apartment, closing the door behind him. He kicks off his shoes and hangs his leather jacket over the back of one of the dining chairs before taking a seat in the oversized black leather recliner across from me.

Greyson and I used to live in this small apartment together, but when things got serious between him and Alora, he decided to move into the farmhouse with her, leaving it all to me. However, he still crashes here from time to time. This place used to belong to our parents, like the bar below it, and once we took over that, this place became ours, too. Greyson's parents retired. Greyson's parents and mine were best friends. They did everything together, including buying and opening BB. They raised us together and were so close that Greyson and his parents have always felt like family. We even attended church together every Sunday.

When I was around twelve or so, my parents sent me to Greyson's for a sleepover. Both Greyson and I had picked up chicken pox and weren't able to make it to the holiday mass at our usual church, so his parents skipped it and looked after us while mine, being cherished members of the congregation, attended. I'll never forget that night.

The loud bangs of the sheriff's fist on the thick oak door, the sorrow in his eyes when Mrs Laurent brought me down to the living room, where he was seated on the small floral couch. The despair in his husky-toned voice when he told me they were gone. That the church had gone up in flames, a gas leak, or so that's what we were told. The Laurents told me to pray for my parents. To pray for the safe crossing of their souls into heaven, but I couldn't. Because even as a child, I never understood how God could allow it to happen. How could he allow so many innocent lives to be taken in his own home?

So, I've never been back to church. I've never prayed because while I have many questions about my parent's death, one thing is sure. God, if he does exist, doesn't want to hear the words I have for him

What's that saying? If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.

Besides, who needs prayers when you feel at home with your sins? I'd much rather burn for eternity in the fiery flames of Hell than pray to a god who promises his followers salvation, only to roast them alive in his own home while they kneel in praise before him.

After all, it's not Hell if you like how it feels to burn.

"Well shit, good morning to you, too," I smirk. "Guessing you had an eventful evening?"

"You could say that. Looks like I'm not the only one," he adds, nodding disapprovingly toward the flatscreen TV.

My lips pull into a smile as I lift the mug to my lips again. My eyes follow the flickering flames on the TV as the black smoke billows through the windows and rises to the night sky.

"You have balls, I'll give you that," he comments as he crosses his right leg to rest on his left knee. "I mean, I know you like the big ones. The ones that mean shit, but fuck , Lennox. The Magnolia? Really?"

"Actually, this one wasn't me," I reply.

His head snaps in my direction, and I meet his gaze, finding his blue eyes searching my face for any sign of dishonestly. But he won't find it, and he knows it. Lying isn't my thing. I don't see a point in it. If I do something, I'll own up to it when asked. I don't give a fuck what people think.

The key is covering your tracks enough that no one has a reason to ask you. Greyson, however, knows me well enough to know that if I say I didn't do it, it's because I didn't, especially when it comes to my fires—my masterpieces.

"So what? It's just a random accident, then?" he asks, returning his eyes to the screen where the pretty blonde reporter is talking silently into the mic in her hand. "Shit, someone's losing their job," he laughs.

"Oh, this was no accident. It was fucking intentional, and they knew what they were doing. It just wasn't me," I explain, tossing back the last sip of my bitter coffee. Placing the empty mug on the table in front of me, I rest my elbows on my knees and thread my fingers together. "But you can bet your ass I'll be finding out who the fuck it was."

"Great. Just what New Orleans needed. Another fucking Pyro," he scoffs with a shake of his head. He rises from the chair and fist-bumps me on the way to his old room. "I'm headed for a shower."

"Probably a good idea," I snicker, "You smell like death and dog shit."

"Fuck you, " he shouts back over his shoulder as he runs his hand through his short sandy hair. I turn my eyes back to the news on the TV, where the weather update has replaced the news of the fire. The blonde and some dude wearing a tacky suit point to a large screen behind them, explaining the movements of the wind and how it will affect our weather. Grabbing the remote, I click off the TV and toss it back onto the couch beside me. Taking my mug to the small open-style kitchen area of the apartment, I quickly wash it and place it on the rack to dry before heading down the hall toward my room.

Closing the door, I pull my torn grey tee over my head and toss it in the laundry. Placing my hands on the top of my antique dresser, I stare into the large mirror mounted above it. I can still clearly picture the thick smoke and flickering flames in my head. The sight of that fire is one I'll remember for a while. This pisses me off because I don't usually get a thrill out of fires that are mine. That I didn't set. But fuck there's something about this one. The Magnolia that I can't shake.

I need to see it in person.

The fire has long been put out, but there will be clues there that even the fire marshalls won't pick up on—clues that will make sense to me and only me. Every Pyro has their trademark, the thing that gives them away. It could be something small—something we don't even notice we're doing at the time, but it ends up always being the same. Or, it could be something we do intentionally.

Finding their trademark is the first step to discovering who my new rival is.

New Orleans is a big city, but it's not big enough for the two of us. Two Pyros. Especially if they plan to go around burning down shit that will not go unnoticed; sure, I get off on watching the flames, but this is my home. My turf.

Whoever this person is, I will find them. It's only a matter of time. And when I do, I'm going to watch them burn.