Page 3

“No home left,” the girl muttered finally, her voice flat but heavy.

She stepped closer, careful not to move too quickly. “What about your folks?”

The girl’s silence was all the answer Ruby needed.

The file had mentioned that the first victim had a teenage daughter.

Seventeen, with one year left of high school.

They’d been poor, but they’d had a roof over their heads—until the fire.

One blaze had taken everything: her home, her mother, her stability.

Now, she was another orphan in a town that barely cared.

Ruby bit her tongue, the taste of copper filling her mouth, and swallowed the wave of anger that threatened to rise. Not at the girl—at the world that had let her end up like this. “You staying somewhere safe?”

“Cousin’s couch,” the girl replied hollowly.

Reaching into her bag, Ruby pulled out the stolen wallet. Thumbing through the cash inside, she tugged out the thickest wad of bills—hundreds, twenties, maybe some fives—and pressed it into the girl’s hand. “Here.”

The girl blinked, finally looking up. Her eyes were wide, disbelieving. “What—why?”

Ruby shrugged, already turning away.

“But—”

Ruby stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Kid, if I wanted it back, I wouldn’t have given it to you.”

The girl clutched the money tightly, her fingers trembling. Ruby didn’t wait for a thank you—didn’t need one. She climbed into her truck, started the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot.

Grit and dirt clung to the truck’s sides and she rolled down the window. The night air rushed in, warm and thick, clinging to her skin. Without a second thought, she tossed the wallet—ID, credit cards, everything—into the cornfield. It disappeared into the darkness, swallowed by the tall stalks.

As the road stretched out before her, the dark creeping in around the edges, Ruby tightened her grip on the wheel.

Maybe she’d call Lucas, see what strings he could pull for the kid.

Throwing her sympathy to the back of her mind, she focused back on this hunt’s thermophile.

The kid could be someone else's problem. She couldn’t save everyone—she’d learned that the hard way.

RUBY’S TRUCK TORE across the dirt road, gravel crunching beneath the tires as she gripped the steering wheel tighter.

The sky had already surrendered to the night, a deep indigo stretching endlessly above her, but the horizon ahead splintered with an eerie orange glow.

A bolt of dread shot through her, sending a sharp chill up her spine.

She clenched her fists, forcing steady breaths out of her nose to calm the growing storm inside her chest. Rolling down the window, she stuck her head out and caught sight of the flames in the distance.

She reached into the glove box and yanked out an industrial-strength mask, securing it over her face as she floored the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward as she gunned for the back of the house.

Whoever had been caught in the fire was gone now.

A thin, shimmering mist drifting upward, glowing faintly purple in the moonlight.

It wasn’t smoke, not exactly. Phlogiston, an element released by living organisms when they burned, was invisible to regular humans but vivid to thermophiles like Ruby.

The hybrid human-bacteria species—not unlike a zombie—fed on it.

They breathed it in through their lungs, filtering the smoke and absorbing the element like oxygen.

For thermies, as the TCA had nicknamed them, it wasn’t just sustenance—it was life itself.

Only living entities released the element, leading many thermies, and occasionally those who studied the creatures, to believe phlogiston was the soul being released to heaven.

Stories spread as early as the 17th and 18th century about inhumanely strong, immortal creatures (demons, vampires, really any spooky story told about monsters lurking in the night) that sucked out the souls of their victims.

It was a load of shit. Phlogiston was real—she’d seen it, tasted it, inhaled it regularly. But souls? Another story entirely. And it wasn’t because she was a good person worried about her eternal soul. She wasn’t a particularly great person. Some might even say she was a bad person.

She found it hard to believe weed had a soul. Or the herbal cigarettes the TCA had given as her primary food source. Or mosquitoes. Or poison ivy. Or frogs. Maybe frogs. Definitely not toads. And yet, all released phlogiston into the air and into her nostrils.

Despite all the types of phlogiston thermies could consume, nothing compared to the rush of human remains.

The high pervaded like nothing else—an extreme stimulant turning even the calmest thermy into a relentless predator.

Ruby had seen it before, the way it consumed others of her kind, making them fast, brutal, and mindless as they chased that feeling of invincibility.

An undercurrent of tension ran beneath their skin, a sense that if they stop moving, if they stop consuming, everything would crumble below their feet.

Their humanity was crippled, pushed to the side as they chased the feeling.

But the crash destroyed them. She remembered hers vividly.

After the high came a fog that settled over her mind, a never ending, bone-deep exhaustion.

But thermies couldn’t sleep. They couldn’t eat either—food didn’t stay down.

The bacteria that had infected her organs ensured only phlogiston could sustain her, nothing else.

For a year, she’d wandered, sleepless and starving, her body cold and unresponsive to any warmth.

When the cravings had grown unbearable, she’d trapped herself in an underground sewer, desperate to avoid becoming one of the mindless creatures she despised. That’s where the agency had found her.

She had been one of the lucky ones—a rare thermophile who managed to resist the cycle. Her target tonight hadn’t been so fortunate.

As her truck rounded the corner, a large barn came into view, engulfed in flames.

The fire roared, devouring everything in its path, and the last of the purple mist trailed upward, disappearing into the night sky.

Ruby brought the truck to a screeching halt and stepped out, the heat from the blaze washing over her.

Ruby checked the seal on her mask before opening the truck door, ensuring its security over her mouth.

Stepping out into the night, the roaring crackle of flames and the rhythmic chirping of crickets met her.

The air thickened with smoke, but there were no screams or cries for help—only the eerie calm of destruction.

The fire in the barn cast an orange glow over the fields and swallowed the surrounding darkness.

Her sunglasses did little to shield her eyes from the stinging smoke, but they helped her focus on the faint traces of phlogiston drifting in the air.

She could sense the thermophile nearby—a familiar, electrifying pull in her chest—but the swirling smoke obscured any sign of him.

The element brushed against her skin, sending a wave of longing through her body.

Her breath hitched, her heart pounding faster.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to concentrate, even as saliva pooled in her mouth at the tantalizing scent of energy.

Before she could steady herself, someone slammed into her from behind, sending her crashing through the barn door.

She hit the ground hard, the impact momentarily clearing her mind of the intoxicating urge.

As she looked up, the hollow eyes of a smoldering corpse stared back at her.

She flinched and turned away, trying to shake off the momentary horror.

A wooden stake embedded itself into the dirt beside her face, a shard splintering off into her cheek. Ruby pulled it out with a wince, glaring at her attacker.

Her target stood over her, his pupils blown until only a sliver of his whites remained.

With every blink, she could see the veins on his eyelids—harsh, purple rivers roaring and curling around his eye sockets.

Similar ones ran behind her glasses in a pale green.

He bared his teeth, spittle flying as he snarled at her like a feral animal.

She recoiled, disgusted, but didn’t hesitate.

With a swift kick, she connected with his knee, bending it inward with a sickening crack. He howled in pain.

She stood and attempted to brush the hay and soot from her dress. In retrospect, wearing her favorite dress in the countryside had been a poor choice. She groaned as she noticed a tear at the bottom of the hem and made a mental note to have it sent to her seamstress.

Grabbing the man by the collar, she dragged him out of the barn and tossed him onto the cool grass, far from the remaining phlogiston.

He sat up, furiously pounding his knee back into place before charging at her again.

Without the element of surprise, he had no chance against her.

Thermophiles grew stronger with each human they inhaled and her count rested in the thousands.

Compared to her, this man had the strength of a child, barely past his first few victims.

When he lunged this time, she didn’t even bother dodging. Instead, her hand darted into the strap along her thigh and emerged gripping a sleek, bright pink baton. With a practiced flick, it expanded with a satisfying snap.

He paused mid-lunge, his bloodshot eyes flicking to the absurdly cheerful color of the weapon, a spark of confusion flashing through his primal rage.

“What?” Ruby quipped, twirling the baton once in her hand. “Not intimidating enough for you?”

Before he could respond—or react—she drove the baton against his ribs with enough force to send him sprawling onto his back. He wheezed and clutched at his side. She pressed the baton against his throat, pinning him to the dirt.