Fire

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.