The Shadow
Fire.
Heat, warmth, and light.
Heat, destruction, and death.
The nature of fire had always fascinated him, but the colors fascinated him even more. He loved watching the blue flicker in the heart of a blaze, turning into a yellow so white it could blind a man, then deepening into oranges and reds like a sunset bleeding across the sky.
Yeah, he liked fire. He always had.
He remembered the first time the flames captured him. There was a boy in the orphanage who constantly complained about burning under his skin. The idea had fascinated him. Then he had seen the flames themselves, colors searing into his vision. After that, the rest of the world—the rest of the colors—never appeared quite right. The caretaker had said it was because he had demon eyes, because he was a demon child. The man had named him after death, too.
Maybe he was a demon. Because that very week, he had set the man alight. He smiled as the sparks danced over the caretaker's body, the sound of his screams the only irritant in the picture.
He didn't like it when they screamed. The noise grated on his ears and tasted sour on his tongue. He didn't understand why he could taste sounds, but screams were never pleasant. No, he preferred them quiet. He liked coming out of nowhere, catching that split-second look of something visceral on their faces before he mastered their death.
He hadn't always understood what that look was. Emotions escaped him. He saw them, and could recognize them afterward, but he didn't understand what that terror felt like, or how pain was experienced. Others laughed and cried and empathized, and he felt nothing.
Perhaps that was why she caught his attention.
Maybe it was because she felt more than he had ever seen anyone feel. Maybe it was the flame in her hair. Or maybe it was because she had bound them with something she couldn't take back.
Whatever it was, from the moment her fire had found his, her fate was sealed.
He sat in the shadows watching her.
Strobe lights swept over the stage of the auction club, illuminating three women in translucent robes standing center stage. He didn't look at the ones on the sides; his heterochromatic eyes were fixed on the one in the middle. He studied her—the way she blinked at her feet, her face dead to the world. The only sign of life remaining was her hair, the hair that had grabbed his attention since that first time.
He pretended to sip his drink, wondering who was going to die by his hands tonight. They all knew never to bid on her; a trail of dead suitors sent a loud message. Yet, someone always did. Someone always tempted fate. And someone always died. Last time, it had been a sniper bullet through the brain, the poor bastard's blood splattering across her pale skin. This time, he'd make it more personal. Maybe he would douse them in gasoline while she watched.
As though feeling his gaze, she looked up. Her eyes swept the crowd of well-dressed men, going straight to the shadowed corners, knowing that's where he stayed. He liked that.
He saw the moment she spotted his silhouette, a mix of hatred and betrayal etched on her face for everyone to see. Her hands fisted at her sides. His obsession deepened.
Though she wasn't a blaze yet, only an ember, she was his.
He watched her, intently focused on the nuances of her face.
One day, she would be an inferno, and he would be the devil who controlled it.