Afterglow (Wildefire) (2 page)

Colt just smiled. “Part of being a good trickster means telling people exactly what they want to hear. A few false
promises and they eat right out of my hand. Hell, some of them are so stupid that I could take an apple from the supermarket and convince them that it was the forbidden fruit of knowledge if I wanted to.”

“Knowing you,” Mnemosyne said, “it would more likely be a poisoned apple.”

“You know,” Colt went on, “I might have found it in my heart to let you live your cold, sad existence here a little while longer . . . but then you had to try to warn Ashline Wilde that I was coming. If I hadn’t intercepted your messenger before he got to her, you could have put a real damper on my love life.”

“You leave that girl alone,” Mnemosyne snarled, her caved-in cheeks drawing taut against her high cheekbones. It was the first time she’d shown any real emotion since he had arrived at the church.

“You know I can’t do that.” Colt bent down, opened the door to the stove, and plucked a hot, burning coal right out of the furnace. He held it out to Mnemosyne, and even as much as she hated the trickster, she still flinched as she watched his palm blister under the smoldering stone. “I crave her fiery touch,” he said, closing his eyes and tightening his hand into a fist around the stone. As the odor of smoke and burning flesh hit his nostrils, he was momentarily lost in reverie, fantasizing about the volcano goddess, Pele, who had first captured his heart five hundred years ago. He’d loved her when she was an outlaw in 1920s New Orleans; he’d loved
her when she was a protectress of the Hawaiian islands a hundred years before that.

“The volcano goddess that you once loved is gone,” Mnemosyne said.

His eyes snapped open. “Because they took her from me!” Colt raged, stabbing a finger at the painting of the Cloak. “They had no right to break her the way that they did.” Two lifetimes ago, after deciding that she was too powerful and too volatile, the Cloak had split Pele’s soul into three pieces, three goddesses: a conjurer of fire, a summoner of storms, a wielder of explosions. Colt had pledged to put the pieces of her soul back together at all costs, and then he would be reunited with his beloved once more.

Ashline Wilde was one of those pieces—his favorite one—and soon she would love him again.

Colt finally dropped the hot coal to the floor and then held up his hand for Mnemosyne to see. The deep burns and festering blisters all vanished before her eyes, replaced with smooth skin. “All I want is to heal her. To make her whole again. Do you know what it’s like to love someone so intensely that you’d tear the heavens down just to find her again?”

Mnemosyne just shook her head, and the look of borderline pity she gave Colt made him feverishly angry. “You’ve confused love with obsession. If you truly cared for Ashline Wilde, you would let her go, let her blaze a new life for herself, with no memory of you. Instead you
see her as a toy that keeps being taken from you. And you dare to call that love?” She pointed to his chest. “No, there’s no love left in that heart of yours. Just the faintest, crippled shadows of it.”

Colt quaked with seething anger. “I’m going to enjoy hanging you from the rafters.” He unslung the length of rope that he’d coiled around his shoulder; his trembling fingers struggled impatiently to tie a hangman’s knot.

With a resigned sigh, Mnemosyne wandered over to the opening in the back wall and clasped her hands behind her back. There was nowhere for her to run, so Colt allowed her to take in the scenic view of the fjord and the frozen bay one last time.

“There’s a lot that you can learn from the Arctic, Kokopelli,” she said, using his true godly name—the one his people had given him thousands of years ago, before he’d forsaken them. “Up here the polar night lasts all winter. Suddenly the constant darkness makes the days bleed together until time loses all meaning. After weeks of this, months of this, you start to honestly believe that you’ll never see the sun again.” She tilted her head toward the horizon. “But then one morning, when you’ve lost all faith, you look out to sea, and there it is—a sliver of gold peeking its head over the eastern waters.”

In response Colt started to stalk slowly toward her, holding out the noose.

Mnemosyne turned bravely to face him as her
executioner marched forward. “Even the longest darkness has an end,” she said, “and yours is almost over, Colt Halliday. You just don’t know it yet.”

With that, before Colt could dart the last few steps to secure the noose around her neck, Mnemosyne dropped backward through the gap in the church wall, down the steep cliff face of the fjord. Colt rushed forward just in time to watch the Greek goddess of memory leave a crimson smear on the ice and rocks below, before the Arctic waters swallowed her body.

“Always a dramatic exit,” he muttered.

In her stockpile of equipment to forge a living up in the bitter north he found a torch, which he ignited in the coal furnace. Then he wandered over to the painting of the Cloak and held the burning end against the mural until the wall went up in flames.

As the inferno climbed into the rafters, and the firelight danced around him, Colt let the intense heat wash over his face, once again imagining that he was back with his fiery beloved. With Mnemosyne gone there would be no one to stop him from reuniting with her.

Together, trickster and volcano goddess, hand in hand, they’d light the fuse.

And they’d watch the world burn.

PART I: BOSTON

Wednesday

The aromas from the Italian
restaurants and bakeries were at war in the streets of Boston’s North End, a hunger-inducing mix of fresh bread, marinara, and cannoli. At this time in the early afternoon the cafés of the old Italian neighborhood were nearly empty, the narrow lane just as desolate, except for a few cooks and bakers smoking cigarettes and leaning against the brick storefronts. Ash could feel their eyes keeping pace with her as she walked down the street, sensing the tourist among them.

Of course she couldn’t blame them. With the way she had her cell phone and its GPS held out in front of her, she might as well have been clutching a big, wrinkled map. For the second time in as many weeks she’d traveled to a new city with absolutely no preparation or plan . . . and it showed.

That didn’t stop her from pausing in one storefront to admire two big crimson awnings that read
CAFFÉ POMPEII
. A volcano goddess standing in front of a restaurant named after a town destroyed by a volcanic eruption? If Ash believed in signs, this one might have indicated that she was on the right path.

But Ash had no faith in signs anymore.

She had no faith in people anymore either. In the last few months she’d witnessed the grisly murders of three of her best friends—innocent gods whose lives had been snuffed before they’d even graduated high school. She’d watched power-hungry deities descend into madness, the worst offender being Colt Halliday, a villainous trickster who, unfortunately, also happened to be her ex-boyfriend. And worst of all, her two sisters, Eve and Rose—her own kin—had betrayed her and teamed up with the puppeteer.

Colt had charmed and deceived his way into her life, pretending to be human, when in fact he was a supernatural entity just like her. His ultimate agenda: to merge Ashline and her two sisters back into Pele, the destructive Polynesian volcano goddess that he’d supposedly loved for centuries, over many lifetimes. If he succeeded, then when Ash, Eve, and Rose were reincarnated in the next lifetime, they would all wake up in one mind, one body.

Ash knew she wasn’t perfect, but she liked her soul just the way it was now.

And she’d do whatever it took to stop Colt from tampering with it.

After a five-minute walk down Hanover Street, the storefronts opened up onto a beautiful, tree-lined walkway—the Paul Revere Mall. A bronze sculpture of the famous patriot on the back of his horse loomed over Ash, but her attention was fixed on the tall monument in the not-too-distant background.

The Old North Church.

She made her way down the walkway toward the towering white steeple. As a lead, the nearly three-hundred-year-old church hadn’t been much to go on, but she’d learned during her last encounter with Colt that he wanted something here. What could Colt so desperately need to acquire at a church? She couldn’t imagine that Colt was after a Bible or a hymnbook, and he certainly wasn’t going there for confession. And more importantly, why had both Eve and Rose willingly followed him here?

Ash jumped the short wrought iron gate behind the church and cut through the little garden. Against the shrub-lined wall was a statue of Saint Francis, who gazed back toward the street as though he were imploring her to turn around.

The front doors to the church were wide open to let in the crisp July air, but there were only a few people inside. A young man dressed in a shirt and tie stood near the altar, looking remarkably bored. His attention seemed divided between his cell phone and the few random tourists who were wandering around with cameras and camcorders. However, Ash noticed the well-dressed man
straighten his posture and smile stupidly when he saw her.

Good
, she thought.
He looks eager to please. . . . Sometimes being a girl really does have its advantages.

Unfortunately, Ash had no idea who she was looking for, and the tour guide didn’t exactly exude that “person of cosmic importance” vibe. It’s not like she’d been expecting to walk through the front doors of the church and find Colt and her two sisters camping out in the white pews. Still, she’d hoped that someone—or something—would scream, “Colt was here.”

Instead the place of worship looked just like an ordinary church. White walls and high ceilings. Tall windows to fill the room with light. An old pipe organ with its rigid metal fingers pointing to heaven.

Then Ash’s attention drifted to the stairwell against the back wall, which was barricaded by a red fabric cord.

She tried her best to plaster a smile on her face, something she hadn’t done a lot lately, and approached the man at the altar. As soon as he saw her coming, he stuffed his phone back into the pocket of his khakis and tried to look casual.

Nice try
, Ash thought. It didn’t help that she could still hear the tinny sound effects of the video game on his phone chirping through his pants.

Ash stopped just inside the man’s personal bubble. “Do you work here?” she asked.

Unlike hers, the lopsided smile on his face was genuine, if slightly idiotic. “No,” he said. “I just like to dress up
and stand around in historic churches wearing a name tag.” He angled the metallic pin up so she could read his name: Dave.

Someone has to teach this kid some game
, Ash thought. She touched his elbow. “Well, Dave, I just wanted to tell you how adorable I think it is that you let those kids out in the garden make chalk drawings on the side of the church.”

Dave, who had been glancing with anticipation at the hand on his elbow, suddenly blanched. “They’re . . . they’re drawing on the church?”

“Well,” Ash said, “one of them is technically using finger paint, but I’m sure it will wash right off the brick. I especially like the kid who drew the devil and its two big red—”

Dave sprinted down the aisle toward the front door before she could even finish her sentence. Ash made sure the tourists were too engrossed in their filming to pay her any mind. Then she darted over to the stairwell, ducked under the red rope, and jogged up the stairs.

The second floor was just more of the same, but Ash found a door leading farther up into the church. Sixteen hours ago she’d watched her friend Raja fall to her death off the top of an apartment building—a fate that Ash had nearly shared herself, if her fiery abilities and some quick thinking hadn’t saved her on the way down—so the last thing she wanted was to climb a series of rickety staircases and ladders to the bell tower of a hundred-and-ninety-foot tall church . . . but she was running out of options and
clues. Colt and her sisters had reached Boston half a day ahead of Ash, after they’d jumped through one of Rose’s portals, and there was no time to lose.

The musty stairwell, which was barely wider than her shoulders, led up into the dark, brick-lined interior of the steeple. Eight thick ropes descended from above. When Ash craned her neck to gaze up into the rafters, she saw that they were attached to a series of enormous bells. She grabbed one of the red grips but resisted the urge to tug on it.

Ash leaned beneath the little circular window and sighed. “What the hell were you looking for, Colt?” she whispered. Unless there was someone or something hiding up in one of the boulder-size bronze bells, she was faced with two possible realities:

Whatever Colt was looking for wasn’t here, or worse—

Colt had already found it.

Ash dropped down into a sitting position on the dusty floorboards. She was overcome with defeat and out of leads, and her fatigue suddenly caught up with her. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow. She just needed to rest her eyes, just for a moment. . . .