Page 16 of Ashfall

“Fuck.”

The room seems to smolder, and all I can think is how badly I want to make that dream real.

CHAPTER 7

EMBER

The pieces aren’t just falling into place. They’re snapping together with precision, each one locking into the next with the cold certainty of a loaded weapon. It’s not coincidence—it’s design. Calculated. Intentional. Like someone built this firestorm with purpose, and I’ve just found the safety catch.

The files from the past four years are a mess—redactions sliced through them like surgical incisions, whole pages corrupted like someone wanted the truth to rot from the inside. Conveniently missing logs. Metadata scrubbed. But one name keeps surfacing like smoke in the wreckage: Dennis Price. A wildfire tech who knew how to dance at the edge of legality—brilliant, reckless, the kind of man who didn’t just flirt with danger but made out with it in a back alley.

He had a knack for incendiary tech, drone calibration, and predictive fire modeling. Too smart for his own good. Two years ago, he got flagged in a disciplinary review—experimental flare tech used outside regulation protocols. No formal charges. Just silence. Then nothing. Not a trace. Like he burned out of existence, or someone made damn sure it looked like he did.

I sit back in my folding chair, rubbing a hand down my face, heart thudding with the cold excitement of something dark clicking into place. It’s a thread. Maybe even the thread.

Dennis Price had access to remote ignition systems—tech that always seemed to outperform expectation, even in simulations that should’ve failed. It was as if the fire listened to him, like he understood something elemental the rest of the department couldn’t explain or replicate. It was as if he had enough technical skill to start a fire without ever lighting a match.

A note in one file said he’d become obsessed with 'nonlinear ignition anomalies'—fires acting without predictable logic, burning against the wind, behaving like they had will. That’s not tech. That’s... something else. And I don’t like how it sits in my gut.

I pull out my phone and dial the number from memory. It rings twice before a gravel-rough voice answers.

"You got two minutes," the contact says, already cagey.

"I’m looking into Dennis Price," I say, keeping my tone light. "Word is he used to have someone local? Girlfriend?"

There’s a pause—too long. I hear the flick of a lighter, the inhale of a cigarette.

"She’s still around," he finally says. "Keeps to herself mostly since Dennis left. Lives just outside of Flagstaff. She doesn’t talk much… unless she’s drinking."

"And when she is?"

Another pause. Then: "She gets… weird. Starts rambling about things Dennis said. Secret testing sites. Weather that wasn’t right—lightning with no clouds, wind that reversed direction mid-burn. Said he was obsessed with some damn symbol. A spiral. Drew it everywhere—napkins, notebooks, her walls."

My hand tightens on the phone. "Did she say what it meant?"

"She thought it was some kind of marker," the contact mutters. "Said it showed up at fire sites—on scorched bark, rocks, even old maps. Claimed it wasn’t natural. Swore it was a message. Said fire could be… trained. Like it was waiting for the right leash."

I feel the hair rise on my arms. A symbol. A message. A beast on a leash.

"Thanks," I start to say, but I realize I’m talking to dead air—my two minutes are up.

I’m halfway packed and heading to the SUV when the gravel crunches behind me—deliberate steps, measured and heavy like a warning. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The air is different when he’s near, like the pressure changes. Like heat remembers its master. My pulse stutters, equal parts anticipation and exasperation. Of course it’s him.

“Going somewhere?” Dax’s voice is low and smooth, but there’s steel threaded through it—a warning dressed in silk. It wraps around my spine, tightening something low in my belly. His tone never rises, never breaks, but it doesn’t have to. It curls into me like smoke and heat, impossible to ignore.

“I need to follow a lead,” I toss over my shoulder, not even bothering to slow down. He doesn’t need the details, and I don’t need his permission.

“You’re not cleared for solo fieldwork outside of the perimeter.” His voice stays even, but I catch the flicker in his eyes—displeasure, unmistakable. He’s used to people falling in line, not walking off without so much as a nod. And that I didn’t defer, didn’t check in? It needles at him. I can feel it like static on my skin.

I stop, slowly turn, and give him the look. "That wasn’t a request. I’m not here to play firefighter, Dax. I’m conducting an arson investigation. That means chasing leads wherever they take me. With or without clearance. With or without backup.Price’s ex-girlfriend is supposedly in Flagstaff, so Flagstaff is where I’m headed."

His jaw tightens. He watches me for a beat too long, like he’s biting back ten different orders he knows I won’t take. “Then I’m not letting you out of my sight.” His tone is clipped, his control razor-sharp—but barely. “You may not be here to fight the fire, but that doesn’t mean it won’t come for you. Besides, you were assigned to me, so I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”

“I don’t need backup.” I flash him a tight smile, more teeth than warmth. "You’re not exactly subtle, and I prefer my interviews without smoldering glares and alpha posturing. Try not to stomp too loudly when I’m actually working."

"Too bad," he says, with the kind of grim finality that makes it clear he doesn’t care how I feel about it. "Because I’m not going anywhere. You may not want backup, but you’ve got me whether or not you like it."

I don’t bother arguing. Not because he’s right, but because I know exactly the kind of battle it would turn into—gritted teeth, stubborn silence, and him shadowing me anyway. And a part of me doesn’t hate having him there. Doesn’t hate the way his eyes track every move I make, like he’s already claimed me. Even if I don’t trust what he’s hiding, even if I don’t need his protection, that heat in his gaze? It lingers. And it makes it damn hard to pretend I don’t notice.

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