Furious Fire: Grimm's Circle, Book 8 Page 2

  The son of a bitch had pulled a gun on him and shot him in the back, just to make sure Finn couldn’t interfere.

  Finn had lain there, gasping, his blood soaking into the ground underneath him and he listened to the wedding bells.

  Becky hadn’t even known.

  There were church bells.

  Becky…it was too late…

  “Not exactly the sort of sound a man wants to hear on his deathbed.”

  A woman knelt beside him, her eyes wide and dark and wicked. She looked like a sinner.

  The man at her back looked like a saint.

  Dressed in all white.

  Thomas Finn was almost certain he had already died. The church bells…why was he still hearing church bells?

  “Oh, you’re not dead, boy.” The woman smiled. “Not yet.”

  He was dead. Had to be dead. He was dead and in hell, because the woman in front of him was the very devil.

  “Oh, so cruel.” She sighed and looked up at the man next to her. “Will, I do not think he likes me. Perhaps you should do the honors.”

  “As that is my job, it seems wise.” The man moved forward, the sun reflecting off his silvery-white hair.

  Thom has seen wizened men with hair that pure white, but this man hadn’t a line on his face. He looked no older than Thom.

  Until you looked into those eyes. Those eyes looked as though they’d seen the birth of time.

  “Not quite that old. You shouldn’t waste your energy on such thoughts. You have a choice to make and you need to make it soon, because this isn’t what I came here for.”

  Behind him, the woman started to pace. “Will, I should go. Get to the church. He’s there, even now.”

  “The…the church,” Thom muttered, his words coming slowly.

  “Wait, Sina.” The man—Will?—leaned closer, until his hair fell down like a veil around them. “Decide. Live or die, boy. If you live, it will not be the life you’re used to.”

  His thoughts spun to Rebecca—always to Rebecca. She was going to marry that lying son of a bitch. That monster—Sawyer Reilly. The bullet in him burned.

  “Focus, boy. Do you want to live? Reilly will be dealt with regardless. You can go to your grave knowing that. Or you can live and take up your sword.”

  “Sword?” he whispered, staring into eyes that seemed to glow. “You are mad.”

  “Decide.” This time when he spoke, his voice resonated inside Thom’s skull.

  Again, he thought of Rebecca. Of course he’d live. He couldn’t stand to leave her.

  “Back here again, I see.”

  Finn didn’t look up.

  He just swirled his hand through the water, his mind still on that day.

  He’d done it.

  For her.

  “I never had a chance, did I?”

  Will sank to the grass beside Finn. “I never promised you that you would be able to be with her. I told you to decide. I told you that your life wouldn’t be the same. All I told you was that you could live and take up your sword.”

  “And I called you crazy.” Finn sighed and looked up at Will. “I should have just given up, gone on. Then maybe I could have been with her. She died anyway.”

  A shadow fell across Will’s face and he looked away. “But she died with you at her side,” he finally said. “Do you think that meant nothing to her?”

  It was a cold comfort, Finn supposed. But a comfort nonetheless.

  “Are you going to tell me yet?” Finn stared out over the river. “It’s been more than a century and a half. That old man, Clemons, is long gone. He spent a few weeks in our town—nobody ever even knew about his time there, except for a handful of people. Everybody thinks he based those books on others…” Finn slanted a look at Will, brow arched. Caustically, he added, “And I can’t imagine how that happened.”

  Will said nothing.

  After a moment, Finn shrugged. “We don’t even exist anymore. It’s like our lives never happened, and what bit of me is out there? It’s a story, so fictionalized and fragmented even I don’t recognize half the shit I told him.”

  “Your name stuck with him—the friendship between the three of you. Perhaps your knack for finding trouble, Finn. It’s how storytellers are—they see a story in everything and run with it. At times, that’s served us well.” Will’s gaze was locked on the far away bank on the opposite side of the river, a rueful smile on his lips. Then he turned his head. “Huckleberry Finn…of all the names given to everybody over the years, that has to be one of the strangest.”

  Finn snorted. “I still think Cinderella takes the cake.”

  Will ignored that. “Do you really think the reason I never told you all of it had anything to do with whether or not people might remember him? You? Do you think I worried you’d go chasing people down, wresting the truth from them or taking some twisted form of vengeance over Rebecca’s death? You’re one of us for a reason, boy. Volatile as you may be, you’ve never been one to make somebody else suffer for the sins of others.”

  Finn set his jaw.

  Sometimes he wondered.

  If he could have made others suffer over Becky’s death, would he have let it go? Or would he have taken the chance?

  “You’d have let it go. You have forgiveness in you. You also know that in the end it wasn’t Sawyer who acted against you, who harmed her. You have the experience to look back and see it now.”

  Lifting his face to the sky, Finn focused on the fat puffs of clouds drifting across the expanse of blue. The experience? Yeah. He knew that now. Some part of him had even recognized the wrong in Sawyer’s eyes that last day. His friend had been nothing like the boy he’d known. It was that boy who had helped inspire a man to pen tales that were still read after all this time.

  They’d known Sam when they were young men—not children. The acquaintance had been a brief one. It had been something of a punch to the face when Finn had seen the book for the first time. He’d looked, just because of the names…Tom…and Sawyer. It had ripped a hole in him. Then, as he’d flipped through it, Becky’s name had all but grabbed him by the throat.

  Samuel Clemons had been much, much younger when they’d met him, in his mid-twenties if Finn had to hazard a guess. They’d been just a few years younger. Sawyer had been a lawyer, a man looking to make his mark on the still-young territory that was the west. Finn had less ambitious goals. He wanted Becky. He wanted to get married. He wanted a home, something he’d never had.

  Something he still didn’t have.

  “How long?” he asked. It was one he’d asked Will a dozen times over the years. Maybe more. He’d never gotten an answer. He didn’t really expect one now.

  Maybe that was why he didn’t quite comprehend the answer when it came.

  “It happened not long after he turned twenty-two. You were…”

  Finn closed his eyes, because he already knew the answer. Twenty-three…he’d been twenty-three. He’d asked Becky to marry him and she’d said yes. He’d asked her to marry him. She’d said yes and then he’d left. He wouldn’t ask his beautiful Becky to live a pauper’s life. She hadn’t cared.

  He had.

  So he’d left, to make something of himself. Just a few years, that was all he’d needed.

  He’d written her, faithfully.

  She’d written back.

  Until she hadn’t.

  Less than two years later, he’d gone back and his entire world had ended. That was in 1862. The year everything changed.

  “I’d left,” he said, his voice wooden. “He was a demon and I left her with a demon inside my best friend’s body.”

  Finn’s heart seemed to slow, each beat echoing through his entire system.

  Thud…

  Thud…

  Thud…

  The fire inside him blazed, burn
ed harder, teasing him. Let me out, let me out.

  Slowly, he rose, each movement tightly, carefully restrained.

  Then he stood there, each movement careful, controlled.

  He turned away and stared up the slight incline. Just beyond that copse of trees were the skeletal remains of what had been a church. Gone now. The dirt road that had led to it was overgrown, but in his mind’s eye, Finn could see it, still see Will as he hefted Sawyer’s dead body in his arms, hauled him across the way.

  His corpse had been lying there for days when Finn came back, so sick at heart, so empty.

  He’d all but burnt the forest down with his fury that first day.

  If Will hadn’t been there, there was no telling what might have happened.

  He’d just left Becky’s funeral. Her father had been a shadow of a man. Her mother hadn’t even been able to leave her home and come to the funeral. Most of the town had turned out to pay their respects…and whisper, talk, stare.

  They’d thought they were being quiet, but he’d heard.

  Becky had lain with Sawyer.

  She came to a bad end…

  Gave herself to a man outside of marriage, and this is what God had to say for it.

  “Get away from her, Sawyer,” Finn warned, so angry he couldn’t see straight. He was questioning his sanity, his sight, everything.

  He should be questioning his sanity. Hadn’t he been lying on the riverbank only moments ago? Bleeding to death? He could remember the pain, staggering and all-consuming. But there was no pain now.

  He could remember thinking he was dying—maybe he had.

  Maybe he was caught in some version of hell. Or maybe he was dreaming.

  It was possible he was crazy. When he looked at Sawyer, he didn’t see the man he’d known since he was a boy. Well, he did, but it wasn’t just the man. He slid in and out of focus while something larger, ephemeral, swelled and pulsated around Sawyer. It made Finn’s bizarrely sensitive eyes water and it felt like his skull was twisting inside out.

  And the place stank—Sawyer stank.

  Nothing seemed right. Nothing seemed normal.

  Becky had looked at him, misery in her eyes, one hand resting on the swell of her belly. “Tommy, please…”

  No…no, that couldn’t be right. Couldn’t be real, either.

  The sight of it, her body ripe with another man’s babe, the sight of her standing next to another man, ready to marry him, all of it ripped a hole inside him, but he couldn’t think about that. He could only think about the thing at her side—the thing that moved like a man. A thing, some part of him realized. A thing, not a man. Not his friend.

  “Thom,” Sawyer purred. “What a surprise to see you here.”

  “Get away from her,” he said again, narrowing his eyes as he sighted down the barrel of the Colt.

  Somebody moved behind him. He heard the noise so loud—like the roar of a Colt fired next to his ear. He tensed as a hand came to rest on his shoulder. Sina. “Relax, lad. It is only me. Let us handle this, will you?”

  Let them—they were insane.

  “Yes, boy.” Sawyer sneered at him. “Let them handle it. You’re just a whelp who’ll get in the way and get yourself killed. Again.”

  Get myself killed… Those words whirled in his head. This really is happening. His gaze landed on Becky as a soft gasp fell from her lips. She turned, or at least, she tried.

  But Sawyer caught her arm and she tensed.

  Finn couldn’t see it, but somehow he knew.

  His nostrils flared and he caught the scent of sweat—softer, more feminine. Becky. Some instinct whispered inside that it was her. And a thudding—rhythmic, hard.

  Too fast.

  And there was so much he heard, smelled.

  Everything rushed inside his head.

  The hand on his shoulder squeezed. “Easy, lad. There’s too much coming at you. You need to go outside.”

  “No.” He all but snarled it at her. He took a step forward, his hand tightening on the weapon he held.

  Sawyer started to chuckle. “What do you think you’ll do with that useless toy now?”

  It wasn’t until that moment that Finn realized the revolver felt…wrong.

  He looked down.

  “Boy, you never—”

  Too many things happened in that moment that he let himself look at the gun he’d crushed in his bare hand. The strength he hadn’t even known he had. Everything inside him began to burn. No. Snarling, he threw it down and lifted the other. “I still got…”

  Something red rolled up his hand.

  Heat grabbed him. Exploded up his arm, through his entire body. “I…” The air in front of him wavered, the way it did on a blistering hot day.

  And then the fire exploded.

  People screamed.

  But all he could see was Sawyer.

  Fire exploded around him and then there was the familiar, booming sound of a gunshot.

  A woman screamed.

  It was not Sina, that strange woman, though.

  She was cursing, long and loud, and then she was running, tearing forward with a speed that befuddled Finn.

  Or it would have, if he hadn’t found himself mesmerized by the dancing flames.

  That odd, metallic scent.

  Turning his head, he found himself staring through the flames.

  Fire. Where had the fire…?

  Then he lunged for the pale, still form on the floor.

  Chapter Two

  Finn didn’t even remember leaving the riverbank.

  He stood at the edge of the churchyard.

  The church had burned to the ground. Will had kept it from spreading but he hadn’t been able to save the church.

  Then he’d blasted his way into Finn’s head and bound his ability for a decade.

  The pyrokinesis was apparently too volatile to be left in the hands of somebody spiraling through grief and rage. A newly made angel at that. Although why Finn had come into this life with such a deadly ability, he didn’t know.

  He was still trying to understand why he’d come into this life at all.

  Brooding, he stared at the rotting remains of the church. A new one had been built. Twice.

  It had burnt down twice more.

  Once after lightning struck it in 1892 and then again in 1928 after a lantern was knocked over. Apparently they gave up then. “Three times a charm.” Staring at the few timbers that hadn’t yet given into the elements, he looked at Will. “You’re telling me that he had a demon in him all that time. We were best friends. We did everything together—he was a good man. Once. I don’t…”

  He stopped and lifted his gaze to the sky, staring at it through the crisscrossing branches of the tree.

  “It’s an easy enough answer. You felt it yourself when you saw your Rebecca standing next to him. Jealousy. He wanted what you had. He loved her, just as you did. But she loved you. The demonic can work that. You know it as well as I do.”

  Finn closed his eyes against the knowledge that burned in him. “And it had him—had her for two years?”

  “No.” Will’s voice was a cool slap against the burning fury that started to spiral out of control.

  Finn shot to his feet but when he would have started to move, Will caught his arm.

  “He knew, almost right away, that he’d made a mistake. He fought it—as hard as he could, for as long as he could. But once you open that door and it comes inside, once you let it gain control…” Will looked away.

  “It was too late then.” Bitterness twisted him. Two years. He’d left his woman alone with a monster for two years. No wonder Will hadn’t told him.

  “That monster didn’t get the better of him until the final few months—not when it came to her.”

  Finn swore. “Stay out of my h
ead.” He yanked on the leather cord around his neck. He’d been wearing it when he woke up after Becky’s funeral and Will had told him just what sort of life he’d fallen into. The pendant was etched with upswept wings and when the Grimm looked, it bore words from a language long dead.

  Under Finn’s touch, it pulsed, then warmed. Even that irritated him, this connection to a life he hated. He ripped it off and for one moment, he thought about hurling it back at the other man. But something stopped him. Instead of throwing it, and his life, away, he snarled, “This—wearing it—accepting this life, doesn’t mean I want you prying inside my head. Let me have my thoughts. They are all I have, okay?”

  Will inclined his head. “If you wish. But would you really prefer to live the rest of your life believing that your friend spent two years tormenting her? Or would you have the truth of it?”

  “Sometimes,” Finn said quietly, “I really hate you.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  Will didn’t blink as he found himself staring down the barrel of a Colt M1877.

  Finn had to admire that. Of course, Will could take that gun, melt it into a noose and strangle Finn with it before the metal even cooled, so that might explain why Will didn’t so much as change his expression.

  “I. Hate. You,” Finn bit off, fury beating and chewing at his nerves with jagged, gnawing little teeth that left him wanting to scream.

  “You aren’t the first.” Will reached up, closed a hand around the barrel and pushed.

  Because he knew he wouldn’t shoot, Finn lowered the gun and then, weary, he shoved it into the holster and turned away.

  “I don’t want to know this,” he said. “I have enough nightmares in my head.”

  “He never hurt her. Not physically. She went to her grave bearing guilt. That alone is an awful burden, but you and I both know that there are much worse sins in this world.”

  Slowly, he turned his head and looked back at Will.

  The other man was staring into the sky, his expression serene. “He slept with her once, only once. He didn’t hurt her. He had her convinced that you’d abandoned her and she was upset, lonely.”