TFS: Burnt Earth

Molly

“Where are you taking us?” Chayton probes.

“To our new home,” I repeat.

Sheyla succeeded. She didn’t use the last of her humanity in the way I expected though. I figured she’d give that gift to her mom. Nope. See, Brody wasn’t about to let her go unguarded. Fucker fused himself to her leg, going on a joyride to Sheelin with her. She shot him full of the last of her humanity, spawning his seed into the beautiful boy we thought we’d lost forever, before sending both him and her mom off into the sunset to live happily ever after. Meanwhile, she incinerated the Tribunal and everything up in my best bitch, along with my best bitch, in the greatest flame-induced misfortune of all time—her transition. She didn’t die either. Brody turned around and saved her stupid ass a second time.

It didn’t take long for the hot news to spread. As though my cynicism gave birth to contagious anarchy, we’re currently on the verge of an elemental apocalypse. I can think of no one more capable of helping us survive such a thing than KrazyPants Kristoph Blackenwood.

“Why can’t we just stay with the others?” Randy complains. “We’re stronger as a group.”

“What happens when you put all your eggs in one basket?” I contend.

“You make egg salad,” Rowtag reasons.

“I want egg salad now,” Debhlainn whines.

My sky-fliers have had a rather rude awakening about life post-Sheelin. They were cooked for and looked after. Being responsible for themselves isn’t something they excel at. They first envisioned I’d be their mother, picking up after them while ensuring they were fed and clothed. Yeah, no. Sweet fuck all chance of that shit happening. I’m not their fucking mother. I’m not cleaning up after their rank asses. They’ll do it themselves. If they don’t like it, they’re free to fuck all the way off. If they want to complain, I’m down for kicking their asses right out the door.

With no departure or landing stones, since Shitface Sheyla blew those all up too, travel is cumbersome. We have to use standard, human means, which requires money we don’t readily have. Seán’s a math genius, already capable of balancing ledgers, and he gave me a crash course in doing the same. My plan is to start a business. I can’t do that in the remote Amazon Rainforest. Wildlife doesn’t boast profitable return.

The Keanes and Connells were more than willing to fund us, but I don’t want their charity. I will, however, accept a small loan to get us started, just not from them. I plan to pay it back, with interest, in five years.

“Where the hell are we?” Chayton persists.

“Is this KrazyPants Kristoph’s island?” Randy asks excitedly.

“He’ll loan us the money we need to start our business,” I inform them, as we make our way to the somehow still standing, though it should be torn the fuck down, ramshackle building.

Debhlainn lifts a dubious brow. “This guy has money?”

“This guy has been alive longer than all of us combined,” I advise them. “He has money.”

The sign in the window says something new. Underneath the scratched out ‘Hotel Happy’ and ‘Cat Crack Clinic’ reads ‘Elemental Exterminators’. I smirk and walk into the building. It has no door.

Kristoph’s sitting behind the desk, flipping through a colouring book. He’s traded in his polyester suit for a full Steve Irwin ensemble, complete with khaki shorts and knee socks. Instead of mountain boots, he’s thrown fashion caution to the wind by wearing sandals.

“We talked about this,” I snipe.

“No, you talked about it, and I didn’t listen,” he corrects me. “Partner or no dollars.”

“Do you even know the first thing about being a business partner?”

“Do you?” he counters.

“How exactly are you contributing?”

He motions around him to the building.

“This place will cave in.”

He shrugs.

“Fuck it,” I backpedal. “We’ll ask someone else for the loan.”

“That’s a damn disappointment,” he remarks. “I’ve already booked the calendar for a whole month.”

“The fuck you mean?”

“I mean, the amount of interested clients is crazier than me,” he claims.

“So, ridiculously crazy?”

He gives me his best Cheshire cat smile. I shudder. What did he do with the cats? Not asking. No way in hell am I asking.

Our business involves taking our select set of skills and putting them to good use. Without the Tribunal in place to maintain order, the remaining Solathairs and Sumairs are a bunch of wild animals. Every empire needs to be ruled. Sheyla doesn’t want that job. She’s created a committee, which is all well and good, but everyone knows we need something like the Sentry to keep fuckwits in line. Only, the Sentry isn’t receiving orders from the Scholars anymore since they no longer exist. Sheyla has the ability to give orders, yet the cunt refuses, so we’ve been forced to take matters into our own hands before everything gets turned upside down.

What Sheyla does do for us is provide names and locations. The rest is up to us. When we find our mark, we’re responsible for deciding whether they should be saved or slaughtered. Destroying Sheelin disabled their tattoos, so it makes no fucks whether they’re a Sumair or Solathair. We can exterminate them either way. The only time we involve Sheyla is when we’re trying to save them.

We keep some of the same rules, like conversion responsibility. If a Solathair creates a Sumair, they’re responsible for them. The difference is Sheyla shows them how they can survive off each other, instead of needing to draw energy from others. There’s also the bland ass energy pills the Amazon Coterie cooked up.

We keep the three strikes rule. Those strikes apply to most smaller infractions, with the exception of the newest and most important rule. Solathairs are not, under penalty of extermination, allowed to kill humans. Sumairs are not, under penalty of extermination, allowed to kill Solathairs. Basically, no unsanctioned killings are allowed. The sky-fliers, land-walkers, and water-gliders have absolute autonomy in making the extermination decisions, but in all cases, the penalty for breaking the golden rule is immediate death. They don’t get three strikes on that one. Just the single one. That’s my team. The kill squad. Hell. Fucking. Yes.

We’ve eliminated some rules, like the constant mobility rule, which opens up the opportunity for relationships outside the special elemental circle. The only caveat is they have to change their appearance to eliminate suspicion. For Solathairs, that’s easy. They can even make themselves appear to age. They can live fully human lives, without the dreaded finality of it. For Sumairs, it’s a tad trickier, yet not impossible. They just have to dabble in cosmetic surgery, or find someone with a power they’re willing to share altering their appearance.

Sheyla doesn’t have time for politics, appreciating the level of independence we have. She’s trying to live out a happily ever after for herself. Got her Brody back. Got her mom and dad and friends handy. Having her cake. Eating it too. That type of shit. I reckon she’s earned it. At least for a while. Still hate the bitch. Don’t judge me, okay? The fuck you expect? She killed my best bitch. Of course I still hate her. Bitches aren’t interchangeable like that. Sheelin is irreplaceable.

“Fine,” I concede. “We can’t stay here though.”

He fires up a brow. “Why not?”

“This place is a death trap. We need something safer.”

He grins, snapping his fingers. Everything changes. There’s no shift from rubble to royalty, no sounds like Sheelin made when she moved things. He just snaps his fingers and everything changes to the way he wants it to be.

“What sort of zombie juice box trick is this?”

“As you know, I enjoy slurping brains,” he reminds me.

“Which you haven’t done in a long time,” I state, but it comes out sounding more like a question.

“Not entirely true,” he admits.

“You were slurping our brains into thinking you lived in a dump?”

“In my defence, people leave you to your own devices when they feel sorry for you,” he points out.

“Well, do tell me, KrazyPants,” I muse, “how do my brains taste?”

“Like Zesty Doritos,” he insists.

“Empty calories,” Chayton tacks on.

“Go pick your rooms,” I order my team. “Before I let our friend lead you into the volcano.”

They scatter like rats.

“Full calendar, huh?”

He grins.

“I reckon the master suite is already taken?”

“I don’t sleep,” he volleys.

“For me?” I prod.

“Little birdy in my window sill, you can have whatever room you will,” he chants.

“Bullseye.”

“Oh, and Molly?”

I turn away from the elevator to look at him. “Yeah?”

“It’s a double bed master suite.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn him. “I don’t play well with others.”

He shrugs, batting lashes far too innocently. What’s the fucker up to?

The elevator opens to the top floor. The room is glorious with an amazing view. The volcano rumbling quietly a safe distance away reminds me of Connor. Bringing Kristoph on as a partner is a bold move, but there’s no better way to keep him colouring in the lines than by letting him draw the lines himself. I can’t imagine my life ever getting any better than this.

Then she steps into focus. My world turns on its axis. Every bit of air is sucked out of the room, funnelling right into her. She is breath. She is life. She is alive. Fuck, she’s real! I know it’s her without having ever seen her in this form before. “Sheelin,” I murmur.

She opens her arms. I’m across the room by the time my heart beats a second time.

She laughs, smoothing out my hair. “I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”

“How the fuck?”

She laughs again. “That girl should really come with a warning label.”

“No fucking shit,” I agree.

“Fire cleanses,” she explains. “In my case, she burned everything in me, purifying me, but she couldn’t destroy me. I’m kind of indestructible.”

“Thank fuck,” I mutter. “You can stay here? Like this?”

She laughs again, cinching her hat trick. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“You want to come work with me?”

“You and me, Babe. Forever,” she confirms.

Fuck yeah! Elemental Exterminators is open for business.