He didn’t need a second prompting. He grabbed my elbow and marched us through the crowd. He still held up his badge, but he was less polite to those who didn’t move fast enough, bodily moving them aside with his arm and shoulders as he cleared a path. A grumble of mutters followed in our wake, most antifae sentiments.
The cop manning the barricade looked frazzled when we reached him, which wasn’t terribly surprising as it was his job to control access to the scene, but with as many different agencies as appeared to have responded, figuring out who was authorized to enter wasn’t an easy task. From what I could make out in the flame-lit darkness, the full alphabet soup of law enforcement and emergency services had made an appearance. The perimeter cop stepped aside when Falin flashed his badge, and then, after writing down Falin’s information for the log, glanced at me.
“Craft is with me,” Falin said, giving my arm a tug so I had no choice but follow him past the barrier.
The cop didn’t try to argue. He’d clearly given up on controlling access and was simply acting as a record keeper. I handed him my card for his log and kept moving.
Falin paused to scan the scene ahead of us. We were across the street from the blaze, numerous official vehicles between us and the burning house. Groups of officials congregated in small clusters on the opposite sidewalk, but I couldn’t make out any features to differentiate the groups. Between the fire and the strobes from police, fire, and ambulances, the light was too chaotic for my poor night vision to process details, at least at this distance. Falin clearly didn’t share my difficulty, but tugged me toward one group hovering around the back of several open ambulances. With each step, the air pushed heat against us, like a tide rushing out from a fire I could still only see raging somewhere beyond the vehicles.
I was expecting paramedics, but as we got closer, I realized most of the figures were too bulky with protective suits, helmets, and air tanks. Firemen. And not all of them were outside the ambulances—several sat in the backs of the vehicles or on the gurneys, oxygen strapped over soot-darkened faces, paramedics tending to blistering burns and . . . other wounds.
“Bring me up to speed,” Falin said, flashing his badge to one group of men.
They glanced at his badge, then at Falin and me. More than one man shuffled, as if uncomfortable, but after a moment a large man in his early forties stepped forward.
He pursed thick lips, studying Falin’s badge. “FIB, huh? You think this is fae related?”
“I don’t know yet. Tell me what you know.” Falin paused, and then added, “Chief.”
The man nodded, indicating Falin had been correct that he was, indeed, the fire chief. He gave a brief summation of the callout and the time the first trucks arrived. “The house was already engulfed, so my men got hoses on it immediately. As more trucks arrived, we got hoses on the surrounding houses to keep the fire from spreading, but focused on getting as much water as we could on the Wilson residence. The fire didn’t respond to mundane or magical intervention, and the neighbors were convinced the family was still inside. A couple of my men decided to play hero and rush in, but they didn’t make it far.” He jerked his head to the men being treated by the medics. “They found the two adult residents, both unconscious. After bringing them out, we realized many of their wounds had nothing to do with the fire. Both were rushed to the hospital and they’re stable. About then was when my early teams rushed back out of the house. That’s when we started seeing forms in the flame. At first we thought it was the kids trying to escape, but the shapes were twisted, evil.” He shivered, the movement making his jowls quiver. “And the men who went in and made it back out? Well, they might as well have gone in wearing only their skivvies for all the protection their suits provided. They also suffered wounds that weren’t caused by fire. I don’t know what’s in there or what caused the fire, but we can’t put it out and we can’t enter. The best we can do is try to contain it until it burns itself out.” He stopped, his hard gaze locking on Falin. “That is, of course, unless the FIB know how to stop it.”
The dread that had been clawing at me since we first heard about the fire turned icy and sank low in my belly.
Falin said nothing, just gave a vague gesture to acknowledge the chief’s words and then started making his way around the vehicles. I followed, my steps heavy as if the dread had sunk all the way to my heels and weighed them down.
We stepped around the last fire truck, and I finally got my first unobstructed view of the scene. Firemen rushed about on the sidewalk and lawn. Most of the trucks had already run out of water, but there was a hydrant one house down, and several men braced the hose, controlling its jet of water. Fire witches chanted at the edge of the lawn, though I wasn’t sure if they were trying to diminish the flame or, as the chief said, just trying to contain it to the one house.