Ann Aguirre: Hell Fire

Not being an idiot, I didn’t touch that line. “So, where do we start?”

Chance closed his eyes for a moment, and the car livened with the thrum of a charged wire. Use of his gift never failed to prickle the hair on my forearms, rousing a little chill that hinted at arcane energy in play. Rain tapped away at the Mustang and cloaked us from the wider world. I felt I could sit all day and gaze at the purity of his profile.

When his long lashes unfurled, I caught my breath a little. His striated gaze, amber, topaz, and sherry brown, just never lost its magic. I forced myself to sound brisk, no matter what my pulse was doing. “Got something?”

“I have no idea,” he said finally. “It’s faint, really faint. But if I do, it’s west.”

Well, that was odd. Generally, his ability worked like dowsing, and the pull got stronger the closer we came. I’d only seen him blocked one other time, which didn’t bode well. To date, only demon magick had proved stronger than what Chance could do. He put the car in gear, looking uneasy.

“So I was right. There is something wrong here.”

Chance nodded. “Wrong and old . Whatever’s happening in Kilmer, it isn’t recent.”

By my reckoning, it was at least fifteen years old, and might hark back farther still. Tragedy had a way of running under your radar if you weren’t personally affected by it. Maybe other families had been torn apart as mine had; I just hadn’t noticed.

“Well, don’t just sit there. ‘Go west, young man.’” I forced a smile.

He didn’t offer one in return, just started the car and waited long enough for the windows to defog before he circled around the inn. This late in the morning, there were no cars to challenge us when we pulled into the street. Driving west offered no answers, though, just took us to the road that led out of town.

Chance frowned at the wet pavement as he pulled into the parking lot of what had been a used-car dealership. Now it was just a sea of broken cement with a small vacant building at the far end. The chains had long since rusted away.

“I hate to say it, Corine, but I don’t think I can be your Magic 8-Ball. I think we’re going to need old-fashioned legwork.”

I should’ve known it wouldn’t be as easy as I wanted, but some part of me wasn’t even surprised to find my suspicions confirmed about Kilmer’s rotten core. My flesh had been crawling ever since we drove through the tunnel of trees leading to town. It didn’t look like things would improve any time soon.

“There are two obvious places to start. I can make a list of all my old foster parents and we can drop by to see how they’re doing . . . and pick their brains.” My tone expressed how much that notion pleased me. “Or we can do a little research at the library. We may end up doing both, anyway, but I know where I’d prefer to start.”

“The library it is. Which way?”

“It used to be downtown, near the courthouse.”

It still was, a pale stone building set along the square. For the first time, I noticed it possessed a Gothic air, ornate stonework and bizarre symbols etched into the rock. Most people would call this Gothic Revival style, as it even had gargoyles on the roof. If I watched them too long, they might even have moved, and I didn’t want to see that. Chance parked, and I climbed out of the car.

The rest of the square was less dilapidated. Outlying regions had gone positively seedy, but here, the rectangular brick buildings were in pretty good shape. Too many of them sat empty, though, the small, striped awnings blowing over businesses that had closed or moved out of town. Faint gilt lettering had been half scraped away on some of the windows, so they said things such as AILOR and OOKSHOP. The death of a bookstore always made me sad.

In front of the courthouse, there was a Grecian-inspired lady carved out of marble; the folds of her robe were filthy now, stained with a combination of dirt and dead leaves. I knew she was supposed to be Themis, the goddess of justice. Many towns had a similar statue near the courthouse, but she was usually depicted with a sword in one hand and scales in the other. Maybe the sculptor knew something about Kilmer, because he’d depicted her sitting on a rock, sword slack, and the scales beside her. Maybe it was just my imagination, but she looked sad, frozen in that pose.

Everything smelled wet, and the air was heavy in my lungs. Water pooled on the small brown lawn out front, so we picked our way carefully up the path. Three steps led up to a glass door. A posted sign read OPEN, but I could only see our misty reflections; no lights within.

“Stay down,” I instructed Butch, who complied with a little huff.

It was weird and eerie, how little this place had changed. In some ways, Kilmer struck me as the town time forgot. There were no restaurant chains, no big stores, not even a single Micky D’s. Common sense offered “no money to be made” as the reason, but I wondered if there was more to it. The lack of modern touches seemed unnatural, creepy, rather than comforting. This small town offered the feeling of “I know where you live” instead of the security of recognizing all your neighbors.

A grungy gray runner waited for us just inside, so we wiped our feet and let our eyes adjust to the dim interior. Immediately to the left sat the checkout desk, where a gimlet-eyed librarian studied us with disapproval. I guessed she thought we should be at work.

Well, we were.

“Where’s the microfiche?” I asked.

The old woman’s mouth pursed as if I’d given her a persimmon to suck. Then I realized I’d done something worse—I hadn’t greeted her or rambled about the weather for ten minutes. “In the back. Are y’all wanting to look at something special?”

I could’ve made up some story about writing an article, but that would have made the rounds faster than some random woman poking around the periodicals. Sooner or later, people would start asking who I was and why we were here. I just wanted to put it off as long as possible.

“Just the daily paper to start, the back issues. Are those still in a file cabinet by the machine?”

Her eyes narrowed behind granny-framed glasses. “Have you been in before? Do I know you?”

Beckoning to Chance, I chose not to answer and wove my way through the stacks. I’d once spent a lot of time in here, reading old mysteries. She called after me. “Copies are ten cents and I don’t make change!”

“Nice,” Chance whispered. “I’m glad I let you do the talking. I’m sure I couldn’t have done any better.”

I waved a hand at him. “She’s too old for you to seduce with a few charming words and a killer smile. It wouldn’t have been worth the time.”

His smile widened into a cocky grin. “You might be surprised.”

“Aw, come on. Did you have to put that image in my head?”

“No. It was just fun. So what’re we looking for exactly?”

As I fired up the machine, I thought about that. “We need dates before we’ll get anything out of the local paper. So let’s start with the day my mom died.”

The winter solstice, December 21. Men had come in the night, bearing flaming brands. She’d shooed me out the back door and then gone to face them in her white nightgown, her hair streaming loose. All night long, while I crouched in the woods, I could smell the flames, curling up into the ink-dark sky.

And ever after, I’d smelled smoke in times of trouble.

“Good idea. We might turn up a pattern.” Chance sat down beside me while I pulled Butch out of my bag and set him on the floor.

“Not a peep,” I told the dog. “I know this sucks, but if we get kicked out because of you, before we find out anything, I’m totally tossing your bacon snacks.”