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Firefighter Paul Wintershins had run into a fire to rescue someone—and died. Or so people thought ….
Transformed into a fire elemental, Paul is torn between setting things ablaze and stopping dangerous fires. Lately, the temptation to burn is getting harder to resist. But when Paul is called to a malevolent inferno, a new desire takes hold of him: to rescue the beautiful woman who is a target for another’s flames.
With the fire raging, their passion could be the key to Jackie’s survival … and Paul’s salvation.
Firebreak
Anna Leonard
Chapter 1
He could hear the shouts, even over the crackling of the fire and the heavy sound of his own breathing through his smoke mask. They were pulling everyone out, abandoning the structure to its fate. The old house that had withstood a hundred or more years of Louisiana weather had finally met her match in a fire they could not douse.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, under his helmet, and he glared at the roaring sheet of flame in front of him as though his own frustration could match and quench it. There was no reason for this fire to have broken out, and that, in his experience, meant probable arson.
Arson pissed him the hell off. Arson in someone’s home, in a building as fierce and lovely as this? The idea of letting the arsonist win pissed him the hell off even more.
“Wintershins!”
“I’m on my way” he said into his comm, casting a final glance around and heading for the exit. He hated to lose, they all did. But you respected your opponent, and you acknowledged when you were beat. Otherwise, you got dead. And he might not have much in his life worth keeping, outside the job, but he wasn’t going to give up and die.
There was a buzzing in his ears, as though the fire was laughing at him. Paul grimaced, hefting his gear and increasing his pace. But just as he reached the doorway, a line of flame raced from behind him, crossing the doorway like a red dragon. It should have been easy enough to move over it, his gear protecting him from the worst of the heat, but even as he thought that, the low barrier rose into a full wall, filling the doorway with an impenetrable sheet of fire. Paul swore and was lifting his comm to announce his situation when the red-gold flames shifted, bulged outward, as though they were about to explode.
Instead, a face formed in the flames, fine-boned and malicious, a long tongue like a snake’s flickering out from the grinning mouth, eyes black as hell staring at him like the Dark Man himself come to take his soul.
“This house is mine,” the face said, the voice crackling and spitting like the flames it was made of, and Paul’s pores opened with a flood of cold sweat, even as he refused to acknowledge what he was seeing. It was a hallucination, an auditory and visual phantasm caused by something in the flames. Some toxin or drug, and he needed to get out of there, needed to get fresh oxygen right now.
The doorway was clear, the way out was right in front of him. He could hear the voice of his crew through the comm, calling his name, telling him to get the hell out.
“And you’re mine now, too,” the face said, leering at him.
Summoning up his courage, Paul lurched through the door, his gaze intent on the safety just beyond it. As he stepped forward, the flame exploded outward, catching him in a hot, cruel embrace, and there was nothing but fire, agony … and hell.
“Spark.”
He stirred, unwilling to move from the warmth of his nest.
The whisper came again, more insistent. “Spark. You are needed.”
The Spark stretched, its limbs, wreathed in flames, fading from red-gold to a darker red as he woke and reformed himself. Habit, even now, to take a defined shape. Legs, torso, arms, head, and then finally skin sheathing the core of flame, until what stood on the cooling embers of its nest could have passed for a muscular human male—until you noticed the skin flickering with veins of flame, and looked into its eyes and saw how they burned.
The creature that had once been Paul Wintershins did not know the source of the voice that woke him, but he knew what it meant. Somewhere, there was a fire burning. And in that fire … there were people.
And those people needed him.
Whatever hell-magic had destroyed and then rebuilt him into this form had given him the urge to burn, the ability to set the world to blaze … but it hadn’t been able to totally eradicate the man within. When the fire called … the firefighter responded, as well as the Spark.
The Spark felt his body surge toward the call of the crackling flames, though the rising desire was not to douse but to inflame, to pour his essence into the natural flames and cause them to soar ever higher until all that was left was ash and soot
Burn, the desire sang to him. Burn.
“No.” His voice was the crackle and hiss of flame, an inhuman sound.
Yes, it whispered, twining strands of flame over his neck and shoulders, trying to woo him to its purpose.
“No.” His expression showed annoyance, his skin flaring a deeper red, and the whisper faded away—defeated but not gone.
How long had he had been waking this way? No way to tell—a year, a decade or more, and each time the urge to burn battled the urge to save. Each time a small bit of Paul Wintershins faded a little in the conflagration, until he wondered, even as he responded, if the next time would be when the Spark woke, and there was no Paul left at all….
And if that would be such a terrible thing.
Jackie turned in the bed, punching the pillow with her fist, trying to make the lumpy mass into her lovely, comfortable down pillow. But that was back home, and she was here, in this drafty if lovely cabin, with its rustic and damned uncomfortable bed, with a lumpy, too-hard pillow.
But the pillow, and the drafts, and the sound of the frogs and owls outside weren’t why she couldn’t do more than doze off for short periods of time. If only it were that easy. She had fled Manhattan the past Friday, heading for this rental cabin in the woods of North Jersey where nobody would ever think to look for her, hoping, even as she drove up to the little A-frame cottage, that the change of scenery would give her time to breathe, to sort through the chaos her life had become.
Instead, that chaos followed her, dodging her heels when she was awake, and roaming through her dreams when she slept, giving her no rest at all. It had gotten to the point where she was tempted to resort to the bottle of whiskey she had found, dusty and forgotten, in the kitchen cabinet. She wasn’t a drinker, though, and worried that it would make things worse, not better.
She needed clarity, not forgetfulness. Avoiding the issue wasn’t going to do the job, and clearly it wasn’t going to let her sleep.
Giving
