Page 10 of Ashfall (Firebound #1)

CHAPTER 9

EMBER

I can feel him watching me. It's not a glance or a passing look—it's a pressure, a heat, a hum that brushes across my skin like the edge of a flame held just shy of burning. It prickles under my clothes, coils at the base of my spine, and makes my heartbeat stutter like it’s out of rhythm with the rest of me. Every hair on the back of my neck lifts, my pulse tripping like it knows something I don't. He's somewhere behind me, not making a sound, and still I know—he's there. Always there. Close enough to feel. Too far to touch. And yet somehow, it’s like he never left.

Even though I don’t look back when I walk past him in the morning. Even though I pretend I don’t notice the way the air thickens, sharpens, tightens every time we’re within six feet of each other. Like the space between us is charged with something volatile and unnamed—like the air has gone too still, too hot, heavy with the scent of smoke and static. I pretend like I don’t see him. But my body reacts like it’s under surveillance by something ancient and hungry.

And I hate how much I like it. The awareness. The pull. The way his presence skims across my nerves like a live wire, dangerous and addictive. It makes my pulse race in ways it shouldn't, not when I’m supposed to be focused on fire codes and chain of custody reports—not him. But it’s there, undeniable, thrumming just beneath the surface of every breath I take near him. And the more I pretend it doesn’t matter, the more it owns me.

I don’t ask for clearance to head out alone. I’m not some rookie who needs a leash, and I’m done letting Dax Fane’s shadow dictate where I go, how I move, or what I investigate. I need distance—from him, from the weight of his stare, from the way my thoughts keep veering toward things that have nothing to do with ignition points or accelerant patterns. Out there, I can breathe. Think. Reclaim a little control.

According to thermal drift data and last night’s updated reports, a flare zone cut across an abandoned watchtower northeast of base. The area had been dormant for over a decade—remote, overgrown, more rumor than resource on most maps. No recent activity. No reason for the heat signature to spike. Until now. Something stirred the ashes. And whatever it was, it wanted to be found—or feared it already had been.

I hike in alone, brushing past charred branches and jagged boulders, the air still thick with residual heat and soot. Ash clings to my boots, and every footstep sends up faint plumes that curl like smoke signals. The landscape feels haunted—like it remembers what happened here better than any report ever could. The tower groans above me, tall and skeletal, listing slightly to one side like it’s been holding its breath for decades, waiting for someone to notice it still stands.

Then I see it—a spiral, seared into the metal like fire signed its name. I freeze mid-step, breath catching. Not just because it’s familiar, but because it confirms what I’ve been circling for days: this was planned. It’s deliberate. Patterned. Whoever left it wanted me to find it.

A bolt of cold electricity shoots through me—like my body recognizes the mark before my mind catches up. Not fear, exactly. More like a pressure behind my eyes, a signal that something isn’t adding up. I’ve seen this before—maybe in old case files or buried somewhere in drone telemetry I barely skimmed. Now it clicks with eerie precision. That quiet buzz of recognition: this matters.

It’s burned into the metal siding. Smaller this time, but sharp, perfect. Too exact to be random. The edges shimmer faintly, still radiating heat. I crouch, holding my hand close, feeling the energy pulse off the surface. This wasn’t just a message—it was meant to last.

Inside, the stairwell groans under its own weight, half-collapsed and ready to fall. I edge past the wreckage, boots crunching through ash and splintered wood. Then I spot it: the blackened husk of a drone, half-melted into the floorboards, wires curled like burned nerves. I brush the edge, and a pulse of static jolts through my fingertips. Sharp. Wrong. The circuits aren’t just fried—they were silenced. Deliberately.

I flip the casing and find the signature buried under the carbon scarring.

D. Price

I go still. Of course, it’s the fire guy with a mysterious past and a cult-symbol hobby. The engineer who vanished three years ago. The one who supposedly burned in a supply depot fire no one ever got a full autopsy report from. The one whose drone tech revolutionized wildfire reconnaissance—his software could predict changes in wind patterns better than any human analyst. The same technology that, if misused, could spark a firestorm instead of preventing one.

He’s not dead. Or if he is, someone’s resurrected his work—and is wearing his identity like a mask. The code, the drone, the signature—it’s too specific, too personal. Someone wants me to believe Dennis Price is still out here. The scarier truth? Maybe he never left.

I don’t get the chance to decide which it is. Because the tower lurches beneath me. A groan. A crack. A shudder. Then suddenly, what was once the floor is now... nothing.

I grab the window frame, legs dangling, pain shooting through my shoulder like a bolt of fire. Smoke kicks up around me, thick and blinding, curling into my eyes and throat. My lungs seize, panic clawing up my spine. I can't breathe. My boots scrape for purchase, catching on nothing. I'm coughing so hard it feels like my ribs will snap, the edge of the window biting into my fingers. The drop yawns beneath me, wide and hungry. My grip slips a fraction—and fear explodes like static in my chest as my fingers give way completely. I'm falling.

And then I’m not. Because I’m in his arms—swept out of mid-air like I weigh nothing. One moment I’m falling, certain it’s over, and the next I’m wrapped in heat and strength and something that feels suspiciously like safety. My heart stutters, caught somewhere between terror and disbelief, and I cling to him before I can stop myself, just to prove I’m still here.

Relief and frustration crash through me in equal measure. Because of course it’s him. Of course, he shows up just in time, like some smug, too-hot guardian angel with control issues and a savior complex. The kind of man who won’t let me fall but refuses to let me stand on my own either. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of me is glad it’s him.

He catches me like gravity doesn’t apply to him. One second I’m about to plunge into splinters and bone-snapping collapse—the next, I’m scooped from the air like a breath of smoke, crushed against heat and muscle and that impossible calm he wears like armor. His arms lock around me with instinctive precision, solid and immovable, like he’s done this before. Like catching me was always inevitable.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he growls, not letting me go.

“I was thinking I didn’t need a damn babysitter,” I snap, shoving at his chest. “But apparently you’re glued to my ass now, so good job with the timing.”

His eyes burn like coals. “You nearly died.”

“Because someone wanted me to,” I bite back. “That floor didn’t just rot out. It was cut. Controlled. Just like the ignition patterns. Just like the drone. Don’t pretend you don’t see it.”

He doesn’t deny it. But his jaw ticks tight and telling. And that’s when it hits me; I’m right. He and his entire unit know more than they’re saying. Not just about the fire. About all of it. There’s something behind his silence, something almost... resigned. Like he’s carrying the weight of a truth too dangerous to speak aloud. And that makes me more suspicious than ever.

“You’re hiding something,” I whisper. Something big. Something dangerous. And I’m starting to think it’s not just classified files or drone data. It’s in the way he moves, the way he looks at the fire—like he understands it on a level no one else does.

He finally releases me, just enough so I can breathe—but not enough to forget the way my body fits against his. The way his scent curls into my skin like it belongs there.

“Maybe, and maybe I’ll show you,” he says.

“You planning a PowerPoint or are we going straight to an interpretative dance?”

Dax snorts. “I don’t dance.”

“You did the other night.”

Dax snorts again and turns away.

Back at base, I jerk my tent flap down harder than necessary, still shaking from the adrenaline. I pace twice before grabbing my sat phone and punching in the secure line to D.C. When the connection clicks through, I steel my voice and deliver the report—terse and factual, but my fingers tremble around the receiver. The tower. The spiral symbol. The drone. The signature: D. Price. Each word leaves a residue of dread I can’t shake.

I find myself getting stonewalled—hard. Every level of clearance I try to push through hits a wall of vague responses and changing tones. First it’s protocol. Then it’s jurisdiction. Finally, it’s radio silence. Every line of inquiry dies on impact, and the message is loud and clear: back off

“Ember, this has escalated. You need to hold position,” says the man on the other end, his voice clipped and impersonal. “Let the local commander handle the rest.”

“Local command isn’t handling shit. And I’m not standing down.”

He hangs up. I lower the phone slowly, the weight of silence settling heavier than the call itself. My stomach knots, cold and tight. That wasn’t just evasion—it was orchestration. The way his voice clipped. The way he dodged. This isn’t just red tape—it’s a wall. A wall built to keep something hidden. I stare at the dead line, heart pounding. A cover-up? No. It's already in motion. The only question is how far it goes—and whether I’m already too deep to pull out.

I step outside, needing air. Needing space. My hands won’t stop shaking, and there’s a restless buzz under my skin, like my body’s trying to outrun something my brain hasn’t caught up to. The night air hits me like a slap—cold, sharp, but not enough to clear the fog. I pace the edge of the fire line, jaw tight, heart hammering. I need to move. To do something. But all I can do is breathe and try not to scream.

That’s when I hear him. Dax. Low and deliberate, speaking in a language I’ve never heard before—measured, almost ceremonial. It rumbles through the trees like smoke over coals, pulling me toward the shadows without thinking. There’s a tension in his tone that makes every instinct in me go still.

The words aren’t English. They’re not anything I recognize. The moment they hit the air, something cold traces down my spine. My skin prickles—goosebumps, sharp and immediate—like my body understands the threat before my brain can translate it.

Guttural. Rhythmic. Old.

I freeze as he turns and our eyes lock.

And for just a second… he doesn’t look quite human.