Page 7 of Fire's Storm
PHOENIX
Ican't focus.
Three days since the impossible encounter in the fire, and I'm losing my mind. The files scattered across my desk blur together, incident reports and crew evaluations neglected as my thoughts circle obsessively around electric blue eyes and impossible flames that didn't burn.
My fingers press against my temples, trying to relieve the throbbing pain that's taken up permanent residence there. Fifth fucking headache today. Nothing helps—not ibuprofen, not caffeine, not the prescription migraine pills the station medic pressed into my hand yesterday with worried eyes.
It's just stress, he'd said. After what you went through in that fire.
He has no idea what I went through. Nobody does. How could I explain that I met a man—no, not a man—a being with midnight-blue hair streaked with silver and eyes that literally sparked with electrical energy and he controlled fire with his bare hands, spoke of bonds and dragon blood, looked at me like I was water in a desert he'd been crossing for centuries?
Vulcan Aetherion.
Even his name sends currents racing across my skin, small sparks dancing between my fingers when I flex them. The metal desk lamp beside me flickers and dims, responding to the electrical field surrounding me. My computer screen glitches, pixels scrambling momentarily before resetting. The junction of my neck and shoulder tingles with phantom sensation, as if anticipating a mark that hasn't been made yet.
I catch myself angling my body toward the western mountains where we met, like a compass needle finding magnetic north. In meetings, I've started sitting facing that direction without conscious thought. When I sleep, I wake to find myself on the west side of the bed, one arm outstretched toward those distant peaks.
I haven't told anyone about him, about what I saw, what I felt. They'd think I had smoke inhalation, hallucinations, PTSD from too many close calls.
But the evidence is undeniable. My unburned skin where flames licked up my arms should be scarred tissue by now. The strange electrical currents that have coursed through my body since our encounter leave scorch marks on anything metal I touch. The constant, aching awareness of his absence wakes me sweating and disoriented in the middle of the night, my body searching for someone who isn't there.
You're mine now, storm heart, he'd said. The arrogant declaration should infuriate me. Instead, it replays in my mind like a promise, making static electricity build along my nerve endings. Sometimes when I recall his voice—that deep, rumbling bass that seemed to vibrate through my bones—small storm clouds actually form above my head, tiny lightning bolts crackling between them.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I throw down my pen and stand abruptly, pacing the small confines of my office. My skin feels too tight, like it's containingsomething much larger than my human form. The restless energy that's plagued me since that night grows worse by the hour. I need to move, to act, to... what? Find him? Run from him?
Fight him? Join with him?
The last thought sends another surge of electricity through my body, small blue sparks visibly arcing between my fingers. My hands tremble with the effort of containing whatever's building inside me. I've taken to wearing rubber-soled shoes and avoiding metal objects after shorting out the station's entire electrical system yesterday with an accidental touch to the circuit breaker.
It's just adrenaline, I tell myself for the hundredth time. Delayed response to trauma. Nothing more.
But my body knows differently. My body has changed in ways I can't ignore, no matter how hard I try to rationalize them away.
My temperature runs several degrees hotter now—101.2 at last check, though it fluctuates higher when I think of him. When I recall his scent, the spike is so dramatic that steam actually rises from my skin in the air-conditioned office. The station's medic suggested I take time off for my "fever," his concern evident as he pressed the thermometer into my hand.
"Check it regularly, Cap," he'd instructed. "Hit 104, you go straight to the ER."
But I don't feel sick. I feel... electrified. Charged. Like my skin contains barely leashed energy struggling for release.
In the bathroom mirror, I study my reflection, searching for visible evidence of these internal changes. My amber eyes seem brighter somehow, flecks of gold more pronounced. When I focus on them, really focus, tiny electrical sparks dance across my irises—miniature lightning bolts in amber skies.
Storm eyes, he'd called them.
The memory sends another wave of electricity crackling across my skin, this one so intense the bathroom lights flicker and dim. My body sways toward the western windows without my conscious command, like a plant growing toward sunlight. I have to grip the sink to keep from walking out of the station, following the invisible thread that seems to connect me to those distant mountains.
The barometric pressure in my office drops suddenly, my ears popping as a tiny storm cloud forms near the ceiling, mirroring my darkening mood. I've built my career on control—over fire, over crews, over emergency situations. Now my own body defies my commands, responding to forces I couldn't direct or contain.
Static electricity surrounds me constantly now. Lights flicker when I enter rooms, computers glitch when I type too quickly, cell phones lose signal when my emotions spike. Yesterday, Rodriguez's tablet actually shut down when I handed it back to him after reviewing his report. It wouldn't restart until I was on the other side of the room.
The crew has started joking about my "electromagnetic personality," unaware of how literally true their teasing has become. I laugh it off, but inside, panic bubbles closer to the surface with each inexplicable incident.
This morning brought the most alarming development yet. In the shower, the water began swirling in perfect spirals without me touching it, responding to my thoughts rather than physical manipulation. The sight sent me stumbling backward, knocking bottles from the shelf in my shock.
The water had followed me—not dripping or splashing, but forming a hovering sphere in midair that moved with my retreating steps. It hung there, defying gravity, reflecting light in patterns that matched the flames I'd seen in the forest. Onlywhen my back hit the tile wall did my control slip, the liquid sphere splashing to the floor in a sudden deluge.
I'd stood there, naked and dripping, staring at the puddle with a mixture of wonder and terror. What's happening to me? What am I becoming?
