Chapter 9

White hot fire surges in my palm. It grows, swirling into a small orb of contained inferno. With a practiced motion, I hurl it to the ground. It snakes to the edges of our curtained cubicle, stops, and expands upwards. Soon, a ring of fire encircles us. The flames lick the air hungrily, illuminating our faces with a flickering orange glow.

Paul purses his lips, even though the heat is causing beads of sweat to form on his brow.

We have been doing this for almost twelve hours, now. And he has not broken.

"I need to know where the Scepter of Disillusion is." I rise from the stool, my movements deliberate as I shed my jacket and reveal the black vest clinging to my skin. The muscles in my arms tense, ready but unwilling. "It'll be easier if you just tell me now."

Slowly, steadily, Paul replies for the hundredth time, "I don't know what you're talking about."

I glare down at him, and sigh. "I really didn't want to do this." I flex my hands at my sides, closing my eyes as heat floods into my fingertips.

"I'm not sure I believe that," Paul mutters. "You're a demon. A filthy fucking super. You live for this shit. You don't know how to feel. There's not an ounce of humanity in your rotten, evil body. You're enjoying every second of this."

Studying the old man's face, anger scratches the inside of my ribcage. Which is bad news; if anger takes over, I won't get any answers. He'll be dead before we get that far.

So far, I haven't touched him. I've just tried to intimidate him, yell at him, persuade him.

But that isn't working.

Time to take things to the next level.

I roll my tongue over my top teeth and sigh. Then I coax another flame to life. It hovers over my open palm, a blur of heat and light. Paul pushes his shoulders back and tips up his chin. I can practically feel him willing himself not to be scared. Not to think about what I'm about to do.

I extend my hand toward him. I meet his eyes. The flame leaps from my skin to his, landing on the exposed flesh of his forearm. His skin sizzles, an angry red blister forming instantaneously. But he doesn't make a sound.

Even as the stench of burned human starts to fill the air, he remains completely silent.

I keep the flame there, take it away, apply once more to the same place. I burn until I see muscle. Bone. My stomach churns at the sound, and the smell.

Paul's eyes roll back in his head. Sweat drips down his now-gray face.

"Where is the scepter?" I take my hand, and the fire, away and step back.

I catch sight of Nico, looking like he's about to vomit. But don't allow myself to wonder what he's thinking.

Paul exhales heavily, slumping in his chair. He breathes for a moment, in and out in and out, then snaps his head up and meets my eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Rage bubbles beneath the surface of my skin. I don't want to do this. I don't want to go further. I don't want to be thinking the things that are racing through my head: filthy fucking human, he deserves it.

I pace away for a moment, lighting two new flames and letting them dance in the air beside me while I face the curtain and try to regain my composure.

When I turn back, Nico is studying me. He inclines his head to the right. He's asking if I'm okay. I nod, almost imperceptibly, then hurl the flames at Paul.

This new fire, blue at its core, arcs toward Paul's thigh, burning through the fabric of his pants. The smell of charred cloth and flesh fills the air, acrid and suffocating.

The fire moves upward, eating through his clothes and his skin.

When it reaches the apex of his thighs, and is about to burn his cock to nothing but a charcoal husk, he jerks against his restraints. Finally, a strangled cry escapes his lips.

"Stop," he growls darkly.

The flames flicker and stop their slow progression toward his most treasured body part. "I'll talk," he gasps, wincing as he speaks.

"Talk then," I snap, lifting the flames and leaning forward to pluck a loose chunk of fabric from his thigh.

I allow myself to breathe out, and wipe my brow with my forearm. It is beaded with sweat, and my muscles are twitching. Paul takes several ragged breaths, his body slumped against the restraints that gnaw into his flesh. Raw, singed, throbbing flesh mottles his legs and arm.

I fold my arms in front of my chest.

Paul shakes his head. A laugh bubbles in his throat. When he looks up, he says, "Ah, Luther. You remind me of my son. He's dead now. Lost his life fighting for the cause." Paul's eyes flash, and in that moment I see the devil behind the old-man facade. I see evil. "But Johnny got that look in his eyes too…"

The name Johnny strikes a nerve.

"When Johnny saw something vulnerable and knew he could hurt it, he got the same look you have right now. The lust. The adrenaline rush. The power." He leans forward as far as his restraints will let him, rolls his tongue around his mouth, and spits at my feet. "Except, the difference is, you shouldn't exist. You and your kind?—"

"Enough!" I roar, flinging out my arms so the flames circling us flare higher and hotter.

Johnny. Why the fuck does that feel so familiar…?

Then it hits me.

Nova's ex was called Johnny.

I close the gap between me and Paul in one stride and slam my hand around his throat. A vile taste floods my mouth, fury and hatred. "You're from Ridgemore?" I spit, my face barely a breath away from his.

Paul's eyes widen. Finally… there it is.

Fear.

He nods.

Something in my eyes has changed. He is truly afraid of me now.

"Johnny?" I can barely choke out the name, my voice low and dangerous. "He was your son?"

Paul's face is reddening. He nods from beneath my fist.

This wretched man's spawn tormented Nova. Branded her. Fucked with her. Made her a murderer.

"You ever meet his girlfriend?"

I loosen my grip enough so that Paul can speak. "The witch? Yeah I met her. Would have fucked her, given the chance. Glad I didn't, now I know what she is." He licks his upper lip. "Thank fuck Johnny never impregnated the thing."

"Luther…" Nico mutters a warning.

My skin is on fire. My entire body feels like it's going to explode.

I move to the back of Paul's chair. My knuckles whiten around the edge of the back, the wood creaking under my grip.

"Mind you," Paul muses as if we're two guys chatting shit in a bar, "he wouldn't have been the first to use a knitting needle to end a hybrid pregnancy."

A tsunami of bile rises in my throat, and I slam my hands onto the sides of Paul's skull. His hair sizzles, then his skin. I send waves of fire down his arms, over his chest, up his legs.

This time, I don't stop.

I let the heat consume his pathetic, gnarly genitals.

He screams so loudly the curtains sway and the ceiling rattles. He screams until he passes out, and I stand back and watch him burn.