Chapter 4

LENNOX

The gravel crunches beneath my black 1967 Shelby Mustang wheels as I drive down the long and scenic driveway of the Old Magnolia Plantation. Reaching what's left of the main house after the horrific yet fucking stunning fire, I turn off the engine. Steam still smolders over the charred, damp remains as I peer at the wreckage through my window. Climbing out of the car, I close the door softly, ensuring I don't slam it. I don't give a shit about much, but this car, this fucking car, is my whole life. Not only is she a classic and a total beauty, but she belonged to my parents.

Like everything else, as the years passed by following their death, things began to blur together. Aside from the photos Greyson's parents have kept, I barely remember what they look like. I don't have many memories of them, and what I do remember is usually overshadowed by that night's haunting nightmare, making it hard to cling to the good visions. The good and happy times I know we shared before tragedy struck.

The Magnolia Plantation is on a large property on the outskirts of the French Quarter. Built in the 1830s, it was originally a cotton plantation and played an important role in the history of the enslaved people who once worked there. That history makes it a perfect candidate for the Cane River Creole National Historic Park. For years, it's been well preserved and a pit stop for tourists who come here to stroll down Bourbon Street.

You don't live in New Orleans and not know the Magnolia and the history it carries, which means this was not a local. This was someone new to town. Someone who doesn't know the history of the building or doesn't care. Either way, they're a problem. One I need to solve before their carelessness interferes with my shit.

I take my time walking around the property before carefully ducking under the yellow police tape and heading inside what remains of the main building. The air is thick with the scent of burnt wood and smoke. The ground is littered with a layer of ash, scattered bricks, and charred wooden beams. I go from room to room, following the burn patterns the fire left across the floor. After numerous walk-throughs, I don't find what I wanted. The place where it all began, but the familiar hint of gasoline still lingering in the air confirms what I already knew.

It was arson.

I inhale deeply. Filling my lungs with the soothing toxic scent, knowing coming here was nothing but a tease that only added to my craving. My dick hardens as memories of the flames I witnessed on TV this morning replay in my head and I survey the area.

My only guess is that the fire was started on the second floor, which no longer exists. The entire building collapsed, and it didn't take long. The fact that I can still smell the gas in the air means whoever did this, used a lot. They wanted the fire to spread quickly.

They wanted this to end in destruction.

The more I learn about this fire, and the person who set it, the more I find myself curious. I've never met someone who craves the things I crave. Shit, most people would think I'm fucking crazy. That I should be locked up. The key thrown away. Not only did a fire take everything that mattered to me away, but now, I get off on watching it take things from others.

I know it's fucked up.

It's sick. I just don't give a fuck.

Ducking under the tape, I head back down the pristine green yard toward where I left my car on the gravel driveway, but something off to the side catches my eye. In the middle of the green landscape, on the side of the house, beneath an oversized weeping willow tree, sits a pile of burned logs.

A campfire.

Next to it, a large stone, a few empty bottles of cheap beer and cigarette butts. Kneeling, I pick up one of the butts and lift it to my face to inspect it. My lips pull into a smirk.

"Well shit, I didn't expect that,"

On the brown filter of the cigarettes are dark red lipstick marks.

It's a fucking chick.

This just got way more interesting. Immediately, my intentions change. My anger fades away like a hazy fog as I twirl the tiny butt between my fingers and rise to my feet. A new emotion begins to stir inside me. Something more playful and curious. Something I haven't felt for a very long time.

"Okay, lil spark. You like to play with fire. Let's see how well you handle the heat," I chuckle excitedly. Tucking the butt into my pocket, I grab the beer cans and toss them into the back seat of my car. The house might be fucking totaled, but the property itself is still beautiful, and I ain't about to leave trash behind.

My mother taught me better than that.

As I start the engine, a plan begins to form. To find out who this girl is, I need more information. I need her to light it up again. So, I'm going to send her a little message. Pyro to Pyro, letting her know she's not alone and I know the perfect building. One that will make headlines. Set ablaze, this woman will not only hear about it, but I'll make sure she knows it was just for her.

A little gift.

I wake up from a much-needed afternoon nap with a singular purpose burning in my mind, just like the fires I so carefully tend to. Tonight is the night. The night I send a message, both literally and figuratively, to the newcomer in my midst. The one who dared impinge upon my territory, my city of flames. New Orleans isn't big enough for two pyromaniacs, and I intend to make that very fucking clear.

Rising from the comfort of my bed, I head down the hall to take a piss before making my way to the kitchen. It's tourist season, his favorite time of year. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check the time.

7:36 PM.

Shit, I need to get my ass in gear. The hardware store will be closing soon and I still need to stop by the junkyard first.

The junkyard . A small piece of property burried deep in the back roads that I purchased when I turned eighteen. It's nothing pretty, but it's a little place of my own. A place where I can do what I want, when I want, without judging eyes, and a great way to blow off steam. Ever taken a baseball bat to a windshield?

It's a great fucking outlet when you have shit to burn off. I grab my black hoodie from the hook by the door and slide into it before picking up my wallet and keys from the table by the door.

Looks like it will be a busy night for both of us.

After making a quick stop at my junkyard and filling the empty jerry cans from my trunk with gasoline, I pull into a narrow parking spot on a side street and shut off the engine. The night air is thick with anticipation as I climb out of my car and make my way to the hardware store on Magazine Street. It's a quaint little place, tucked between coffee shops and boutiques, inconspicuous to most but a treasure trove for someone with my appetite. The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, greeted by rows upon rows of tools and supplies, each item whispering promises of the infernos they could ignite with the right vision.

I head straight for the section marked ‘Flammables.' Gasoline is always my weapon of choice, and as usual, I have plenty of it, but tonight, I need something else, too.

Fire Starter.

I grab two bottles. One is probably enough, but there is no goddamn way I'm risking not having enough to turn this plan into a fucking reality. Excitement courses through me with every step as I check off the mental list: gasoline, check. Firestarter, check. Zippo lighter… Ah, my fucking Zippo. It's not just any lighter; it's a family heirloom passed down through generations of Arecenaux men. Tucking my hand into my pocket, I wrap my hand around the small, cool metal lighter as a smirk forms on my face. It's kinda fucking ironic, honestly.

Almost like they had the same fucking fascination as me with fire and watching as its beautiful heated flames devour everything in their path. The weight of it in my hand is a reassurance, a connection to my father, and a conduit for the flames that define me.

Placing the bottles on the counter, I hand the old man behind the register a twenty before he has a chance to tell me my total.

"$13.47, I know. Keep the change," I explain, offering him a nod. Gasoline is my first choice, but that doesn't mean I don't like to fuck around sometimes. Firestarter is good in a sticky situation, or in this case, for sending a message.

Cocking a brow, he eyes me curiously as I grab the bottles and head out the door. The small bell chiming above my head with my exit. I make my way through the streets of the French Quarter, doing my best to blend in with the tourists and locals alike. The building I've chosen sits at the edge of the district, an old warehouse with weathered bricks and boarded-up windows. Unlike the Magnolia, this building is a forgotten memento in a city pulsating with life, but its location will make it unable to miss.

It's fucking perfect.

It's a short drive over from the hardware store. As I approach it, my heart quickens. I can't explain it, but I can almost feel her presence, the mysterious woman with cravings so similar to mine, who dared to challenge my dominion by lighting up a building that held so much local history.

A building people will continue to talk about not because of its history but because of how it was destroyed.

Set ablaze.

Ready to put my plan into action, I set the cans of gasoline down and carefully unscrew the cap. The acrid smell wafts up, mingling with the musty scent of decay that hangs over the building.

The familiar toxic scent has my cock hardening in my pants. It's been days since I gave into temptation. Allowed myself the fix my body and mind so clearly fucking crave.

But it's okay. Because this, tonight, will make up for all the nights I went without it. Tonight's blaze, will be my best fucking one yet. If only I could be there to see the look on her face when she sees it. When she sees what I did for her.

Lil spark.

Standing in the small grassy patch outside the warehouse, I take one of the bottles of firestarter firmly in my hand and unscrew the nozzle cap. Kneeling down, I use my fingers to trace the words that will serve as both a warning and a declaration before squeezing the flammable liquid out and retracing the movements I just made with my hand.

I SEE YOU.

Each letter is a stroke of defiance, etched into the damp grass with the tip of the firestarter nozzle. When I'm finished, I take the cans of gas in through one of the doors where the boards have been ripped off. I empty the jerry cans of gas around the building. Spilling the yellow liquid around the rotting floorboards and walls before heading back outside to the grassy area.

Sliding my hand into my pocket, I pull out my Zippo and flick it open and closed in my hand. The engraving on the Zippo, Arecenaux, gleams in the moonlight. My chest rises and falls in slow panted breaths as I prepare to watch my plan come to life.

Standing back, I admire my handiwork. The message is clear: I am watching. Always watching.

With a flick of my thumb, the Zippo springs to life, a small flame dancing at the tip. The initial spark is exhilarating, like the first crackle of a wildfire. I hold it against the accelerant-soaked grass, watching as the flames eagerly lap up the fuel, spelling out my message and spreading outward in an uncontrolled hunger.

The fire climbs the walls of the warehouse, devouring the ancient wood and crumbling plaster with an intensity that matches my own. Heat radiates against my skin, but I am untouched, consumed instead by the spectacle unfolding before me.

Goddamn, she is fucking gorgeous.

Orange and red hues paint the sky, casting eerie shadows that flicker and dance.

As the inferno roars, I take a step back, the Zippo still clutched in my hand as my thumb runs along the engraving of my father's family name.

He'd be proud. They'd be proud. At least, that's what I tell myself with every fucking fire I set.

Each one bringing me closer to them.

My heart pounds with excitement as my message is burned into the grass. Even after this fire dies down, there's no way my message won't be seen. Read, loud and clear. "You thought you could come here, to my town, my home, and do what I do without being seen? Think again. I see everything, lil spark, and now, you'll see me too," I smirk cockily as my eyes fixate on flames as their intensity grows.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, Greyson's name lights up across my screen with a text message.

G: Where the fuck are you? What happened to not being late?

Shit. I was so consumed by my need to send this woman a message, that I forgot about BB.

The sirens in the distance grow louder. It won't be long before they arrive. Before the firefighters attempt to douse the flames that I have set ablaze. But by then, I will be gone, vanished into the alleys and hidden corners of the Quarter.

This is not the end; it's only the beginning of a game—a dangerous game of cat and mouse with a stranger who shares my obsession, my passion for fire. And when we finally meet, when our paths finally cross in the swirling chaos of our shared creation, I will be ready.

Until then, I am the shadow in the flames, the unseen watcher, the Arecenaux whose name blazes bright amidst the embers of New Orleans.

I'm coming for you lil spark, even if I have to burn the city to the ground to find you.