Ember Boys (Flint and Tinder Book 1) Read online

  EMBER BOYS

  FLINT AND TINDER BOOK ONE

  GREGORY ASHE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2020 Gregory Ashe

  All Rights Reserved

  PROLOGUE | EMMETT

  If I don’t write this down, I’m going to forget. They want me to forget. No, that’s not quite right. They want me to believe it’s not true. So I’m writing it here, just for me, so I can’t drift too far away. Like an anchor. Or like roots that run deep.

  I used to live in Vehpese, a small town in Wyoming.

  I used to love a boy named Vie. He was broken and beautiful and a hell of a lot of trouble. He was psychic, and he saw the worst things about me and still loved me. I left him on the side of the road because I knew we were bad for each other. No, that’s not true. I left him because I was bad for him. And because I was scared.

  I used to fight monsters. Some of my friends had abilities like Vie’s: the power to call up fire, the power to control metal. I let one of those monsters carve me up, covering half my body with scars, in exchange for power. I used to be able to create an impenetrable barrier to keep myself safe.

  Used to.

  And now here I am, in a nowhere town on the California coast, locked down in a psych ward.

  So this is for me, for when I get out of here, so I’ll still remember. And, more importantly, so I’ll still believe it’s true.

  1 | EMMETT

  My parents had never said no to me, and I didn’t like hearing it from other people. I decided Jim had just made a mistake, saying no. We were sitting in the San Elredo psych ward’s rec room at a corner table. Our table. The window looked out on the garden, the pond, the tall white walls. Today, there was fog, but I could smell the ocean. And a hint of Jim, like sweet smoke from a campfire.

  “Ok, but for real,” I said. “Tell me.”

  “Come on.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Not again.”

  Riffling my hair, I sprawled in the chair. “It helps me.”

  Thing one you had to know about Jim: he used to be a teacher, so he was a sucker for the words It helps me.

  “When they let you out of here, we’re going to celebrate.”

  “When I get out of this hellhole prison,” I said.

  He had eyes like a watercolor—the same shade of blue that only lasted a few minutes after a storm passed through. Right then, he was rolling those baby blues.

  “When you’re better,” he corrected.

  “When I’m not crazy. I’ll always be an addict, but I don’t have to be crazy too.”

  “You’re not crazy.”

  “I know that. And you know that. But my parents don’t, and neither does the state of California. Or the doctors here, for that matter.” I kicked out my legs a little farther. “I’m starting to feel like it, though. The longer I stay in here, the crazier I feel.”

  “Emmett, you’re not crazy. The things we went through, those things would mess anybody up.”

  “I know.”

  “But you do have some issues you need to deal with.”

  A dead girlfriend, I thought. A boy I’d ditched on the side of the road. The nightmares, and then the nights I couldn’t sleep, and then the nights it had been easier to swallow a few oxy instead of trying to deal with any of it.

  “You’re getting better,” Jim said. Like a teacher. “You’re sleeping, right? No nightmares. You’re not getting caught up in those thoughts.”

  “I know.”

  “When you’re all the way better, we’ll go out and celebrate.”

  I made a gimme gesture. “You can do better than that.”

  “We’ll go to dinner.”

  “No,” I corrected, “first we’re going to see your school.”

  “Ok, we’ll see my school.”

  “And your classroom.”

  “And my classroom.”

  “And you can show me where the shithead who likes to break pencils sits.”

  Jim grinned. “And I’ll show you where Kaleb sits.”

  “And then?”

  “And then dinner.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Really?” Jim asked. “The whole thing?”

  “I just want to make sure you didn’t forget.”

  “Ok, we’ll go to Claude’s. We’ll get ribeyes. Mine will be medium; yours, medium-rare. We’ll both get the garlic mashed potatoes. You’ll get a house salad; I’ll get the cobb.”

  “And dessert.”

  “Chocolate mousse for me. Apple pie a la mode for you.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll sleep for a week.”

  “No.”

  “Emmett.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’ve got nowhere to go. Literally. I can wait all day.”

  Sighing, he said, “And then we’ll go back to my apartment.”

  I did another gimme.

  “I’ll give you the grand tour of the efficiency unit at La Costarica.”

  “You’re messing it up.”

  “Ok, ok. It’ll be dark by then, so we’ll go out on the balcony. I’ve got some blankets. I’ll make some coffee, and we’ll just watch the stars and the coast.”

  “We don’t have to talk.”

  “We don’t have to.”

  “But we can if we want.”

  “Yeah,” he said, with the Jim smile that showed all his teeth, all the way back to the molars, the kind of grin he could only pull off because he had those incredible cheekbones.

  “Maybe a little later, we’ll have a couple of beers.”

  “I thought I was telling this,” Jim said.

  “Then tell it.”

  “I’ll have a beer. You’ll have a Dr. Pepper.”

  I made a face.

  “Three more years, my friend,” Jim said with a laugh.

  “Kids in Europe drink wine at dinner when they’re twelve.”

  “So move to Europe.”

  “My parents won’t care. They let me have whatever I want.”

  “I’m not your parents.”

  “Thank God,” I said before I could stop myself, and Jim did what he usually did: he laughed and blushed all at the same time. His strawberry blond hair was getting shaggy; I barely caught myself from reaching out and tugging on one of the curls that hung over his ears.

  “Not much longer,” Jim said. “Keep making progress. You’re doing great; you’re already off the psych meds, right? Now it’s just dealing with the trauma. So just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t feel like I’m doing great.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself.”

  “I’m not; I’m just saying, I don’t—I don’t know what I’m saying.” I swallowed. After I’d run away from Vehpese, I’d tried to start over again with my parents in southern California. Then, when they realized how much I was using, they’d sent me to rehab. In rehab, I’d made the mistake of talking about the worst things that had happened. I talked about Makayla, the girl I’d loved, whom I’d killed with a knife because she’d become something else—one of the monsters. Men and women who looked like people, but who were really nightmares under a tissue of skin. I talked about how I saw her at night, about why eventually swallowing oxy wasn’t helping and I started shooting up. And that had landed me in the San Elredo psych ward with my own scrip of clozapine, although my parents had thrown such a fucking fit that Dr. Rice had
weaned me off it almost immediately. “The more I say it didn’t happen, the more it feels like it didn’t happen.”

  Jim was pale. “It happened. But maybe it’s better the other way. Maybe it’s better if you just . . . forget.”

  “I don’t want to forget. I want to get better, but I don’t want to pretend it’s not real. The monsters. The things we saw.” I took a deep breath. “Show me, please.”

  Jim looked around; I counted ten people, but half of them were so doped on quetiapine or clozapine they wouldn’t have noticed if Jim had set off a Roman candle.

  “Please.”

  “When you get out. They can’t keep you locked down forever; everybody’s going to realize you’re getting better. You’ll be out of here soon.”

  “Three months at the soonest.”

  “Three months isn’t that long.

  I riffled my hair again and leaned back, closing my eyes. Right then I didn’t want to beg. I knew Jim wasn’t making me suffer on purpose, but in the moment, it didn’t matter. My eyes stung, so when I asked again, I kept them closed. Just to be safe.

  “I can’t do . . . anything anymore, Jim. What I used to be able to do. Ability or talent or whatever you call it. I can’t. I’m all cut up. I look like a fucking monster, and it was for absolutely fucking nothing because I can’t do it anymore”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “And I’ve got doctors in my face all day telling me what happened in Wyoming was because of the junk or because I had a schizo break. I dream about—” I almost said him. “I dream about it, though.” I hurried to add, “Not dreams like before. I’m getting better, I am. These are just dreams. But they’re real. I remember everything. And then I wake up and—and they’re making me think I’m crazy.” I squeezed my eyes shut tighter; I could hear my voice thinning. “Please?”

  Nothing.

  Then, his chair squeaked across the vinyl.

  When I opened my eyes, he was waiting for me: the tiniest glint of red in his hair, the eyes like watercolors, a jawline like a fucking X-Acto knife.

  “Lean over so nobody else sees.”

  Heads together, we bent over his cupped hands. He didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t breathe differently. He didn’t look like he was concentrating. He was just Jim. And then, the next moment, he was holding a flame. Nothing big. Nothing showy. The size you’d get off a match.

  I grabbed his wrist.

  “Ok,” he said like he was about to shake it out.

  “No, just—hold on. Please.”

  His skin was hot; he was always warmer than the average person, but now he was hot. I wondered if it hurt him, what I was asking him to do. I wondered, if I were a better person, if I’d ask. If I’d say, no, you don’t have to do it. Not if it hurts.

  But I wasn’t a better person. I was just me.

  “Ok, that’s enough,” Jim said.

  “Just a little longer.”

  He frowned.

  Before he could react, I laid my hand over his, the flame kissing my palm.

  “Em,” he said, shaking out his hands, and the flame vanished.

  I turned my palm over. A red spot the size of a quarter marked where the flame had touched me. It would blister, I was sure. It hurt like hell, but for a few days, I’d know I wasn’t crazy.

  Jim spread my fingers and raised my hand to the light, examining the burn.

  When he looked up, he was furious.

  “It’s my hand.”

  “That was a bad thing to do.”

  “It’s my hand. Mine.”

  “Fine. Privilege lost. We’re not doing that again.”

  I smiled. “Privilege lost?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like I’m a kid, is that it?”

  “When you act like one.”

  “Privilege lost. Privilege lost.” I turned on the sex eyes. “Sounds kinky. What else are you going to take away?”

  “I’m serious, Emmett. What’s going on? Why would you do that?”

  “Because I want to.”

  “Is this about—” He paused. “I know he would hurt himself sometimes. Is this the same thing? Self-harm, or whatever it’s called?”

  “God,” I said, laughing and pulling my hand away. “You are a fucking drama queen.”

  He wanted to fight about it, but the thing that made Jim so fun was that he shut himself down fast. I had to really work for it. I was still learning all the right buttons.

  Button number forty-seven, or whatever number I was on: hurting myself.

  Check.

  “Let’s get a nurse to look at it.”

  “Great. I’ll explain the magic fire trick. That’ll really speed things along with the wacko evaluation.”

  “We’ll tell her—”

  “You smuggled me a lighter? I stole a pack of matches?”

  I got to watch it again: Jim reining himself in, shutting himself down. Then he waited.

  “Ok,” I finally said.

  “Ok, what?”

  I looked down at the table. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

  2 | JIM

  I left the hospital and walked. San Elredo wasn’t big, and it had been built for foot traffic when the only residents were monks and nuns and hermits and whoever else got dragged out this far. Now, on this rocky stretch of shore between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, real estate was at a premium, but that hadn’t always been the case.

  I followed the sidewalk along the coast. My temperature kept rising, and the day was cold enough that heat wicked off my body in white curls. I wanted to stop and burn something. I wanted to incinerate the trail of paper cups and weekly circulars flattened against the curb. But, like always, I tamped it down. I had learned a long time ago the value of keeping my temper. I had learned the cost when I didn’t.

  I didn’t like Emmett hurting himself. I didn’t like him using me to hurt himself. But then I’d think about the lies, all the fucking lies I told him over and over again, and it was hard to stay angry.

  After another mile, the November day had sucked away enough of my anger that I could think clearly. Or as clearly as I’d been able to think lately; my head was congested, and I couldn’t always seem to draw a full breath. I checked my phone, scrolling through the various task apps I used to pick up cash here and there. A lady wanted someone to hang a toilet paper dispenser. Another lady wanted lightbulbs changed. Easy jobs; easy ways for me to pick up cash. But the thought of standing on a stepstool, screwing in a bulb while Melinda tried to undo my belt with her teeth—or, worse, tried to talk to me—made my temperature shoot up again.

  Ok. Maybe I wasn’t as calm as I’d thought.

  Another job popped up. Tim. I dismissed it. I’d helped Tim last month, moving some of the rocks in his landscaped backyard. I’d shown up in jeans and a t-shirt; Tim had been wearing a polo and khakis. Halfway through the job, I turned around and Tim was wearing nothing at all. I’d left—without burning the hair off his balls, thank you very much—and the next day, he’d sent an apology and marked the job complete. But he kept sending job requests. Always landscaping, like he needed somebody out there raking that rock garden immediately.

  The thing was, Tim wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Sleazy, yes, but God, I was past the age where sleazy could hurt me. He had money. He was interested. Maybe, if I asked, he’d let me stay the night, and I’d sleep in a bed for a change.

  Emmett would have laughed, of course. He would have said I needed a good lay. He would have said a computer programmer with a fuzzy little goatee might be just the thing. He would have laughed and laughed. Not that I cared what Emmett thought; we were almost fifteen years apart.

  Not that the age difference was the real barrier. It could have been five months instead of fifteen years. I’d been his teacher before everything that happened in Wyoming. I’d been responsible for him. And now, here we were, both of us in this tiny town of stone and stucco, w
here the wind and the fog and the salt tang were constant. Age didn’t matter because some things were never going to happen.

  By the time I reached the section of beach I thought of as my own, I was tired. My feet hurt; my right sneaker was coming apart, and cold air seeped through the torn stitching. This stretch of the coast was built with mansions—new money, old construction. Tech giants had taken over from oil and newspaper. But money was money.

  I’d stumbled onto this stretch by luck; I’d been coming home, drunk off my ass, and fallen. I went into the thick stand of coyote brush next to the sidewalk, rolled, and banged my chin on cement.

  Steps. Hidden by the brush, but in decent condition.

  Following the steps, skunked, had been a bad idea, but it had turned out ok. I had made it to the bottom of the cliff, wormed through the branches of a pair of stunted trees, and stumbled out onto sand. The ocean had been roaring in. Somewhere the little dots of light on the water became dots of light in the sky. Every breath felt heavier, fuller, like the air was supercharged with something.

  I had come back the next night with the pup tent I’d bought at an REI yard sale. I did the stairs a few more times, humping supplies and gear down to my new spot: a depression in the cliff’s face, not deep enough to be called a cave, where I set up the tent and warmed a can of beans over a driftwood fire. It was like being a hobo during the Dust Bowl. I looked up at the same mansions that I imagined they’d looked at, little globs of light and warmth and money dotting the coast.

  Ever since that night, I’d slept on the beach. I took the stairs now, emerging onto the sand with a feeling almost like relief. I was surprised to see a second tent joining mine in the depression; Rosie came sometimes, but not often. As though on cue, she emerged from her tent.

  Her hair was cut shorter than mine, and it was the color of a good nail. When she saw me, she raised a hand, but her real attention was on the driftwood fire she was building. She squatted, struck a match, and the sea air snuffed it out. She tried another. And a third. I could have lit it. Once, not that long ago, I could have burned the mansions on either side of us to the ground without taking a step. But the last few months had changed me, affected my powers, although not to the same degree that Emmett had experienced.