I stand in the middle of her pristine kitchen, bathed in magical firelight, grinning like an idiot, because the smell rolling off that pan is the single greatest thing I have ever created.
And the sprinkler system engages.
CHAPTER 11
SOLENE
The sprinkler head bursts.
Cold water slams into the column of fire and the flame doesn't die. It splits. Two tongues of orange magic fork sideways across the ceiling, licking toward the exposed wooden rafters where the plaster has peeled away from decades of municipal neglect.
The fire extinguisher is six steps behind me. The rafters are three seconds from catching.
Boris stands in the midst of it all, face tipped up to the inferno like a child watching fireworks, water sluicing down his green-gray skin , that ridiculous grin plastered across his jaw. The pan screams on the burner. His leather apron steams.
I don't think.
My shoulder connects with his torso at a full sprint. Like hitting a warm brick wall. My feet leave the floor for half a second before momentum and leverage do what strength alone never could. His boots skid on the wet tile. He staggers. We crash sideways into the prep counter and a cascade of mixing bowls rings out across the kitchen like church bells.
"What the..."
"Shut up."
I'm already moving. The heavy stockpot lid hangs on the rack above the burner. Twelve inches of solid stainless steel, thick enough to stun a horse. I grab it with both hands and slam it down onto the copper pan. Metal on metal. The clang vibrates through my wrists, up my forearms, into my teeth.
The flame compresses. Fights. Orange light pulses around the seal between lid and rim, angry and alive, and for one terrible heartbeat the whole thing lifts, the lid rattling like a pressure cooker about to blow.
I throw my body weight onto it.
Both palms flat. Elbows locked. Feet braced on the slick tile. The heat soaks through the steel and into my hands and I grit my teeth against it. Water from the sprinklers pounds the back of my neck, streams down my chef coat, pools in my clogs.
The fire pushes.
I push harder.
Three seconds. Five. The lid goes still. The orange glow fades to amber, to rust, to nothing. Smoke hisses from the seal in a thin grey ribbon.
I hold my position. Count to ten. My arms shake.
"Solene..."
"I said shut up."
Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty. The metal cools under my palms. The smoke thins. Above us, the twin fire trails on the ceiling gutter and die, leaving black scorch marks across the plaster like drag marks from enormous claws. One rafter is singed. Charred at the edge. Two inches from catching.
Two inches from burning the entire town hall down.
The sprinkler system finally registers the absence of heat and chokes off with a metallic groan. Water drips from every surface. The smoke detectors continue their shrill, relentless scream.
I lift my hands from the lid. My palms are bright red. They sting in the cold air. I don't look at them. I look at him.
Boris relaxes on the floor against the prep counter where I knocked him. Mixing bowls surround him like scattered helmets on a battlefield. Water runs in rivulets down the bridge of his broad nose. His apron is scorched at the hem. His eyes are very wide and deep amber and fixed entirely on me.
"You tackled me."
"You nearly burned down a municipal building."
"You physically tackled me. Off my feet."