PLEASE NOTE: Though techniqually this book is a stand alone (you can read it by itself if you want). You may want to start with the companion book, FROST. 

Author's Note: I'm normally as soft and cute as a bunny rabbit, but my story is copyright, so if you steal it and pretend it's yours, I will come down on you like the hammer of Thor. Thanks, have a nice day!

  Note: This INCLUDES people that take the story and say something like "credit to Erin Latimer". Do NOT post any of my stories without permission.

Cover artwork by 

"Jess!"

Dad's voice was loud and irritated, even over the jangle of music in my headphones, and it immediately made my chest knot up with anxiety and the usual slow burning anger.

What did I do this time?

My eyes flicked to the clock on my bedroom wall, a treasure I'd rescued from our small town dump. It was eight o'clock, and that was probably what he was yelling about. I was going to be late for school at this rate.

I tore off my headphones and shoved them into the battered knap sack I'd inherited from Dad, launching myself off my bed accompanied by the shriek of old springs. Maneuvering my way over the garbage and dirty clothes that cluttered my cramped bedroom floor, I flung the door open and screamed back down the hall at him, "I'm coming already!"

Dad was in the kitchen when I galloped downstairs and into the hall, and he came to stand in the doorway, beefy arms crossed over his chest. His face was haggard, probably still half drunk from the night before,

"You think I want to support your lazy ass when you fail school? Get going. If you miss the bus I ain't driving you nowhere."

He smelled like stale sweat and beer, and I wrinkled my nose at him as I yanked the front door open, "you're probably still half pickled," I shot back, "I'm not letting you drive me anywhere."

I anticipated his angry roar, and ducked out of the way as he swiped at me, striking his hand on the doorframe as I bolted out of the house. I laughed all the way down the driveway, hearing him swearing, glancing over my shoulder to see him holding his hand, his face bright red as he cussed me out.

Even as I laughed that cold little knot of fear was forming in my belly. This situation wasn't over. We'd played this game too many times for me to think that. I'd come home to one of three things later this evening. Either he'd be deep in his cups, and I'd come back to find him passed out on the sofa, the TV reflecting weird blue light on his face, or he'd be sober and sorry, asking if he'd clipped my face, begging forgiveness. Or the worse scenario, he'd be drunk again, but not drunk enough to forget our little tiff just now. And that's when things could get bad.

Subconsciously I rubbed one hand over my jaw. It had taken five weeks to heal, and I'd nearly starved on a diet of fruit juice and yogurt. Dad had cried for days after, begging me to forgive him. He'd dumped every bottle in the house, and for the time I was healing, I'd really let myself believe that maybe things were going to change, maybe he really would kick the habit. That had been a year ago, and the worst part of it hadn't been the endless jabs from the kids at school, or the fact that I couldn't speak with my jaw wired shut, or the fact that the nurse eyed us suspiciously and pulled me aside later when Dad went to the bathroom- "did he hit you? Nod yes if he hit you". -No, the worse part had been when I'd been better for a few weeks, and the house was clean and things were looking up, I'd opened the cupboard under the sink looking for dish soap and discovered a bottle of vodka he'd stashed there. That was the worst part, knowing that all of it was a lie.

It had been like this for as long as I could remember, growing worse and worse as the years went by. It had something to do with my mother, with her leaving him. I only knew this because sometimes when he was at the non-violent stage of drunk, he would lie on the couch and moan about her. He would take it in turns to curse "the bitch what left him" and then regret cursing her and cry and moan that he wanted her back. What sort of succubus had my mother been, to drive a man half mad and keep him that way, even ten years after she was gone?

I don't remember much of her other than vague impressions. Six-years-olds aren't particularly observant, I guess. I remember lots of dark brown hair, and a pleasant voice, deep for a woman, murmuring to me at bedtime. And then she was gone, and it was only my father left, teary- eyed and staggering. Once he'd told me in a drunken rage, when I was thirteen, "You look just like the bitch". I'd spent an hour in front of the mirror trying to imagine an older version of myself. Long brown hair and dark brown eyes, a round chin and a gawky frame. Had she been freakishly tall as well? Had the kids at school made her an outcast and shot her black looks in the hall?

Probably not. That was partly my fault, since I wasn't the friendliest person.

The bus rumbled to a stop in front of me, and I climbed on board, eyes scanning for an empty seat. Thankfully there was one between Jon, the kid that sat in the corner and read Stephen King books all day, and Sasha and her friend Brianna, the skankalicious cheerleading twins. Both Sasha and Brianna shot me looks of distaste that were almost identical as I shuffled down the aisle, and I said loudly,

"Something I can help you with, Barbie?"

They both exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes up to the ceiling. I grabbed the back of their chair and flopped into the plastic seat behind them, no doubt jostling their seat.

Brianna said in a loud whisper, "God, she's like a giant. She just shook the entire bus."

Angry heat washed through me. I leaned forward, sticking my face in between them, and they leaned away like I was carrying a plague, "you want gum in your hair Brianna? No? Then shut up."

They both exchanged another wide-eyed look and then went back to looking at Sasha's ipod, so I sat back in my seat and shoved my headphones in my ears. I kept my bag shut on my walkman, because last time I'd taken it out, Caleb Noel, one of the "cool" kids who'd been sitting across from me had pointed it out to everyone and they'd all had a good laugh. Screw them, I liked my walkman. It was vintage, and I'd found it cheap at a thrift store. All the cassette tapes were like fifty cents now, so it wasn't hard to get my hands on stuff I liked. For some reason it took a long time for the heat to leave my face, like the anger was taking awhile to dissipate, and my fingers tingled faintly with pins and needles.

The bus ride was long and occasionally bumpy. When I glanced back, Jon was leaning his book against the back of my seat. He looked up and blew his long brown bangs out of his eyes,

"Firestarter."

"What?" For a second I tensed, thinking he was calling me some kind of name, but then he tilted the book up and I read the print on the front, "Oh, your book. That's...awesome." I had no idea why he was telling me this.

"Yeah, it's really good."

I squinted at him, trying to figure out why he was talking to me for the first time in years. He'd been in my class for a few grades now, and as far as I could remember, had never talked to anyone. Why now?

I'd never been one for subtly, "Why are you talking to me?"

To his credit, Jon didn't look fazed by this question. He shrugged, "you looked like you could use someone to talk to."

I was quiet for a second, not sure what to say to this. The guy seemed nice, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to be making new friends. I was in grade eleven. I had one more year and then I was the hell out of here. As far as I was concerned, I just wanted to be done with school and never have to think about it again.

Thankfully I didn't have to make any sort of decision just then, because the bus rumbled to a stop in front of the school, and everyone started piling off. I shot Jon a grin, as friendly as I could make myself, and turned and shuffled down the steps, forging my own way through the crowd. I was head and shoulders above all of the girls, and slightly taller than most of the boys, so it wasn't hard to make my way through the crowd and shove the door of the school open, one of the first ones through. It wasn't like I was eager to be there, but once I was in class no one could talk to me when the teacher started talking. No one could whisper about me, or shoot me dirty looks.

I dumped my knapsack into my locker, ignoring the couple leaning against the one next to mine. They were passionately entangled in one another, complete with sloppy kissing noises.

Gross.

I yanked my math book out of the top of my bag. Math was first period, and I hated it. I was failing, and every time I brought back an F on my report card it equaled a big brawl with dad, sometimes an F equaled a bruise or two, depending on how many beers he'd had. It wasn't like I showed them to him, but sometimes when he was in a particularly obnoxious mood he'd dig through my school bag.

Tucking my math book under my arm I turned around, almost running into Jon, who was apparently reading while he walked to class,

"Hey!" he shot me a grin over the top of his book, "watch where you're going."

"Speak for yourself," I shot back, "you're the one with your face in a book."

"Reading is good for you," he said cheerfully.

"Unless you get hit by a car," I said dryly.

Jon only grinned and fell into step with me, and I shrugged. Apparently we were walking to class together. Alright then.

I slammed my book down on one of the front desks and flopped into the chair, noticing that Jon took the seat behind me.

The other students straggled in, groups of twos and threes, laughing and talking as they set their books down. As usual, there was a group of two or three guys hovering around Sasha and Brianna like flies around manure, and Caleb Noel was sitting at the back talking loudly, perched on the edge of his desk, leaning back, shaking blonde curls out of his eyes. Preening, basking in the attention of his peers. Every move he made was calculated, a pose. He was wearing one of those wife beater tank tops, his muscles plain through the thin material. There were three girls and a guy crowding around his desk now, laughing at every stupid thing he said.

Thankfully the teacher finally walked in, her high heels clipping briskly on the tile floor. Ms. Franklin, blonde and petite in a black and white polka dot dress, stood at the front of the room and pushed her black framed glasses up her nose, clearing her throat for attention,

"Settle down, let's get this underway now."

Conversation died abruptly as students shuffled to their desks, and soon there was only the quiet flutter of pages turning as we flipped to the last lesson. Ms. Franklin began reading, and I sat back, scanning my eyes back and forth over the page so it looked like I was listening, letting myself be lulled into a near comatose state by the murmur of her voice.

The sound of the bell jerked me out of my stupor, students were already pouring past me, and I slammed my text book shut as Ms. Franklin called out over the clamor,

"Do page ninety-nine for homework, don't forget!"

Tucking my book under my arm I shoved my chair back, joining the crowd as it flowed out into the hallway. I had a free period before English, so I chucked my book back in my locker and reached into the front pocket for my walkman. My hand hit the bottom of the pocket and I frowned, fingers grasping at nothing.

"What the hell?" I grabbed the zipper and yanked it open the rest of the way. Empty. I clearly remembered putting it in there, so where the hell was it? Slamming the locker door shut I straightened up and glared down the hall. Usually I locked my stuff up, but sometimes when I was in a hurry I'd forget, and apparently this morning had been one of those times. So someone had stolen it. Awesome.

A crowd at the end of the hallway caught my eye. Apparently quite a few other students had a spare as well. It wasn't a surprise when I walked closer and saw Caleb Noel in the middle of the group, strutting around, hamming it up for the crowd. When I got closer I could see what he was doing. He had a yellow walkman in his hands, the headphones over his ears, and he was pretending to dance to the music, doing ridiculous moves, moon walking and thrusting his hips, brandishing the plastic tape player up in the air above his head, obviously loving every minute of the attention as the students crowded around him. Their laughter accompanied the hot rush of anger that flooded through me. Caleb had gone into my locker and stolen my walkman right out of my bag.

My anger propelled me down the hall, fists clenched at my sides, teeth grinding. I wanted to punch him right in his smug, arrogant face. Who the hell did he think he was? Some of the crowd saw me coming, and there were a few, drawn out cries of "oh uh" and "look out!"

Caleb Noel paused in the middle of his ridiculous hip thrusting and pulled the headphones off, making his blonde curls stand up, "What's up, Jessica?"

The way he says my name always pissed me off, like I should be grateful that he even knows my name. I glared at him and held out one hand, "You stole my walkman, give it back."

He pasted a wounded expression on his handsome face, "what? How could you accuse me of that, Jessie? I'm insulted! I just bought this yesterday."

"Like hell you did," I said coldly. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of completely losing it. That would only give the crowd more entertainment, and that was his goal. Behind him, I could see the smirking faces of the cheerleading twins. Sasha nudged Brianna when I made eye contact with her, and leaned over to whisper something.

I shifted my focus back to the arrogant jerk in front of me, "look Noel, we both know that's mine. So give it back. Now."

"Geeze, Jess. No need to get all worked up," Caleb shook his head and pretended to look disappointed, "I was just having a laugh."

"You went into my locker," I growled, "that's not funny."

He still hadn't moved to give me my walkman back, and I had an awful sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. He was challenging me to do something about it, in front of the crowd. He wanted to start something.

Caleb held the walkman over his head, taunting me. It was ridiculous, because I was almost as tall as him, I could have tried grabbing for it, but something told me not to. I'd look like an idiot.

"You're really pissing me off," I said, and flushed slightly as the crowd made a collective "oooh" noise around us.

"Come on," he laughed, "I'm giving it to you, you can reach up and get it."

Anger was making my hands shake, and I kept them curled at my sides, "you've got three seconds to give it back to me."

He was still laughing.

"One," I said evenly.

"Come on, what are you gonna do?"

"Two."

"It's like my mom," he grinned around at the other students. More laughter. Rage growing in the pit of my stomach, expanding, filling me with heat. My fingers were tingling worse than before. I knew what I meant to do when I reached three. I was going to punch Caleb Noel square in the stomach. Then I would snatch my walkman from him.

"Three," my voice was hard, and I pulled my fist back, but before I could follow through, the tingling grew even worse, all the way up my arm. Around me there was a sudden eruption of noise, students shouting, footsteps scuffling on the hall floor. It felt like slow motion as I looked down and saw my hand, encased in flickering orange.

I'm...on fire.

My thoughts were stupid and slow, and I couldn't seem to react. I just stared down at my own hand as it burned. Something clattered to the floor at my feet. Caleb Noel had dropped my walkman. He stumbled backwards, yelling, but I didn't look up. My eyes were glued to my hand, waiting for the next second. Waiting for it to start hurting. My flesh would blacken and I would feel searing pain. All I could hear were stomping footsteps as the other students ran from me. Finally my body caught up with my slow thoughts, and I waved my hand frantically,

Get it off!

The back of my hand knocked painfully against the bulletin board behind me, and the fire jumped from my hand to the papers tacked there, the flames eating the posters and notices with eager crackling noises. Finally, more out of panic than sensible thought, I shoved my hand beneath one side of my zip up sweatshirt and clamped the material firmly over my skin. I felt the fire fizzle out, suffocated beneath the heavy fabric of my sweater, and yanked my hand back out, heart in my throat.

My skin was normal, still a faint, tanned brown. Not even one a scorch mark, not even a bit of redness.

What the hell?

I jumped when the bulletin board crashed down onto the wooden bench at the end of the hall. The orange flames had spread quickly, burning violently.

Students were pouring out of the classrooms and into the hall, drawn by the shouts and screams. Thick black smoke was pouring into the air, and people rubbed at their eyes, hunkering down, shouting to one another in terror. Not far from me Caleb Noel was waving at the smoke wildly, coughing and shouting, "Jessica started a fire! Jessica's burning the school down!"

I could hear my name echoed down the hall, other students taking up the cry. Ms.Franklin came running out of her classroom, waving her hands against the smoke, coughing and choking as she spluttered at me, "Jessica Parker! What the hell have you done?"

My chest was tight and my breath was coming in heaving gasps, but it wasn't from the smoke. For some reason the smoke, though it circled around my head and brushed past my cheeks, wasn't making my eyes water or burning my throat as it usually would. My panic at what had just happened to me was quickly turning into raw dread. Whatever had actually happened, it was clear that everyone thought I'd started the fire deliberately, that I, sullen and angry Jessica Parker, was trying to burn down the school with everyone in it.

A loud wailing sound made me jump. Someone had pulled the fire alarm, and the siren filled my ears and drove my panic to an entirely new level. I bolted for the door, waving my hands through the thick smoke and barreled into someone who was groping for the door handle. I could hardly see through the thick smoke but I knew it was Caleb Noel, because he shouted as I bashed my way through the swinging doors,

"She's getting away!"

The stairs were steep, but I took them two at a time anyways, heart beating loudly in my ears, hearing Ms. Franklin scream over the noise of the siren, "get everyone out now..." before her words dissolved into a coughing fit.

Two more staircases and then I burst through the bottom set of doors and out into the fresh air, inhaling deeply, trying to calm myself down, falling forward on the green grass, feeling it under my hands, between my fingers. My fingers still tingled, and my hands, all the way up to my elbows.

Would I catch fire again? The idea was terrifying, and I felt my breath hitch again, almost hysterical. I'd heard of spontaneous human combustion before, watched TV shows where people caught fire and burned away to nothing, burned until they were just a pile of black ashes on the living room carpet. Would that happen to me?

Blinking away tears of terror I tried to concentrate on my breathing, tried to take deep, even gasps of air. Hands clawing at the grass, pulling up clumps. What if I burst into flames again? That was the most horrific way to die I could think of.

The sound of the doors bursting open jerked me upright, the high pitched keen of the siren grew louder as the doors stayed open, and thin trickles of black smoke wafted out with the crowd. I crouched in the grass, eyes wide, heart beating frantically. A group of coughing, smoke covered students and teachers rushed out, mingled with people from the lower level whose clothes were perfectly clean. The entire school was evacuating because of me. This was somehow my fault. They were going to blame me, they would say I'd set the school on fire as some kind of rebellion. My panic spiked, until all I could hear was a high-pitched ringing, and my vision spun wildly.

To my horror, one of the teachers came out supporting someone who was bent over double trying to gasp in air. "Get his inhaler out of his pocket," someone was yelling, and when they made the kid stand up straight to take a puff from it, I locked eyes with Jon, the book reading kid, and my stomach dropped. I felt like crying. The one kid who'd been nice to me for the first time, and I'd gone and given him an asthma attack.

Someone came barreling through the crowd with a shout, "it's her! It's her!"

It was Caleb Noel, his face red with excitement. He stopped just in front of the crowd and pointed at me, "that's the crazy bitch that set the school on fire!"

Instinct kicked in over the blinding fear, and I scrambled upright and bolted, feet a blur over the grass as I looked down, lungs straining, heart pounding. When I shot a glance back over my shoulder and saw him sprinting after me, horror jolted through me, allowing for another burst of speed. I strained my body forward desperately, streaking across the wide field as fast as I could, aiming for the gap in the chain link fence. The one I always used when I played hooky or snuck off to the store for licorice and trashy magazines. It was only twenty feet away. I closed the distance, heart beating wildly, not daring to look behind me, imagining I could hear Caleb's sneakers beating out a rhythm behind me, alarmingly close. Ten feet to the fence. Five feet. Two....

Oh my god, I'm not going to make it. He's going to football tackle me and I'll be arrested!

Visions of juvenile hall whizzed past in my head, and then I had the sudden alarming thought of people telling my Dad about what I'd done. At the rage that seethed under the surface breaking free in the face of this news, and the new injuries he'd inflict.

Barreling through the gap in the fence I felt like I was crossing the finish line in some bizarre, terrifying race. I kept running though, not sure if Caleb was still behind me, too afraid to look and see. Now it was an empty road, the backstreet that most of us used to get to the school parking lot. My sneakers slapped loudly on the pavement, and I crossed the road at a long angle, heading for the gas station and convenience store across the street, not even sure why I was going there.

Finally the overwhelming need to know got to me, and I turned my face just enough to glance behind me. Relief slowed my footsteps slightly. Caleb was still back at the gap in the chain link fence, and now he was turning away, heading back across the field to where the crowd of students was growing, still trickling out of the building. I bit my lip, half wanting to go back to make sure everyone was okay, that nobody had been seriously hurt because of me. Already the guilt was gnawing at my stomach, but the terror, the terror was all consuming, it overpowered guilt and made me turn back to the road, back to the gas station. It drove me onwards and away from the school.