Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

10. James

Chapter ten

James

M arcus's stopwatch weighed heavy in my messenger bag as I drove back to campus, its presence nagging at me like an unsolved equation. The factory's chemical residue clung to my clothes. It was a fuel blend I'd never encountered before.

The neutral smell of my sterile office warred with the toxic cocktail I'd brought back with me. Case files covered every surface, their manila edges warped from constant handling. The wall behind my desk had become a maze of maps and crime scene photos, red strings connecting points that refused to resolve into a clear pattern.

I pulled up the chemical analysis from the latest fire on my laptop, but the numbers blurred. I was still tense from watching Marcus tear after that shadow in the darkness. I gripped the edge of my desk and thought about how he'd looked at me when I'd threatened to walk away—like he could see right through my academic armor to the truth beneath.

"You think you can just walk away from this?" His voice echoed in my memory. "From me?"

The truth was, I couldn't. Not anymore. Not since that first warehouse scene, when he'd positioned himself between me and the worst of the destruction without being asked.

My phone lit up with a text from Sarah:

"Found something weird in the factory debris. Chemical signature doesn't match anything in our database."

I started to respond, then stopped as a new thought struck. The mix of fuels wasn't merely unique—it was precisely measured and blended. That kind of precision required extensive training. Where could it be learned?

My fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the fire department's digital records. I needed more. I needed older files and paper trails that might tell me who else understood fire on such an intimate level.

The university archives would have historical records from the department's training programs: incident reports, disciplinary actions, and the kind of deep background that never made it into digital form.

I grabbed my coat, already considering the quickest route to the archives building. The sun had set hours ago, but that didn't matter. Sleep could wait.

I had to know who had learned to make fire dance on a terrifying stage.

The archives department occupied the library's basement level, a maze of climate-controlled rooms lined with metal shelving. At such a late hour, even the most dedicated grad students had abandoned their research, leaving me alone with decades of carefully preserved documents and the persistent hum of dehumidifiers.

My faculty ID granted after-hours access, but something about entering the space alone made my skin prickle. The motion-sensor lights clicked on in sequence as I moved deeper into the stacks, each revealing more rows of acid-free boxes and bound volumes.

Then, before the last light activated, I saw it—a shadow at the far end of the aisle. A tall figure, unmoving. My pulse spiked, and my breath froze in my throat.

The light finally flickered on, revealing… nothing.

I exhaled sharply, my heart hammering in my chest. It had to be a trick of the low lighting and how the stacks cast uneven shadows. My logical explanation didn't stop my skin from crawling.

I forced myself to move forward, tracing the shelf labels with fingers that suddenly turned icy.The back of my neck tingled as if someone were watching.

" Fire Department Training Records, 1995-2015 ," I muttered, tracing the shelf labels. My fingers came away with a fine coating of dust that spoke of how rarely anyone retrieved the files. The box I needed was heavy, stuffed with personnel data and incident reports from when paper was still the preferred medium for permanent records.

I commandeered one of the reading room tables, spreading the contents in careful chronological order. Names and dates blurred together—countless men and women who'd pursued careers as first responders. Some files were thin, marking early washouts. Others bulged with commendations and disciplinary notes.

A familiar ache settled between my shoulders as I hunched over the pages. The coffee from the department's ancient machine tasted like burned plastic, but I barely noticed as I sifted through page after page of evaluations and incident reports.

Then, a single name caught my eye: Elliot Raines.

The file was thicker than that of others from the same period. I opened it carefully, conscious of the paper's age. The first page included a training evaluation that made my heart skip:

"Candidate shows an exceptional understanding of fire behavior and controlled burn techniques. Instructors note unusual focus on flame propagation patterns and structural collapse points."

The words themselves were innocuous enough, but something about them raised the hair on the back of my neck—the same instinct that had made me return to that first warehouse scene in the rain.

I kept reading, and each page revealed more of a pattern I should have seen sooner.

As I dove deeper into Raines's file, time slipped away. The archive's dehumidifiers created a white noise cocoon that masked everything beyond my focused investigation.

His training evaluations painted a portrait that grew more disturbing with each detail. He scored perfect in fire behavior analysis and had an unprecedented understanding of igniting liquids and their dispersal patterns. Comments about his "intense focus" during live burn exercises appeared repeatedly, often paired with notes about his reluctance to follow standard safety protocols.

Then, I found the incident report that changed everything.

"March 13, 2012: Training Exercise Incident. Building 7 Primary Reporting Officer: Captain Thomas Walsh"

My hands trembled as I recognized the name. Walsh—Marcus's current captain. And the date—a few short months before Marcus's father perished.

The report itself was clinical, but the details turned my stomach:

"During scheduled live burn training, Candidate Raines deviated from established protocols. After team entry, someone secured all doors from the outside. It trapped three probationary firefighters inside. Temperatures exceeded safety parameters. Two casualties—"

Bile surged up into the back of my throat. I forced it down with a swallow of coffee, scanning further:

"When questioned, Candidate Raines stated: 'They needed to understand. Fire isn't something you fight. It's something you become.'"

A security guard's footsteps echoed somewhere in the stacks, making me flinch. Still, I couldn't stop reading. I couldn't look away from the psychological evaluation that followed:

"Subject displays concerning fixation on fire as a transformative agent. Expresses belief that extreme conditions reveal true nature of individuals. Recommendations: Immediate dismissal from program. Psychiatric evaluation. Possible criminal charges—"

The report ended there. There was no follow-up or resolution, just a note that Raines had disappeared before charges could be filed.

My phone vibrated against the table. Marcus's name lit up the screen, but I let it go to voicemail. I needed to understand everything before I called him, and I needed to be certain.

Because if I was right, it wasn't about art or obsession.

It was about transformation.

I pushed away from the archive table, my legs stiff from sitting too long. The need to move, to process what I'd found, drove me toward the Seattle Police Department's secure terminal in the corner. My faculty credentials granted limited access—enough to search case files that might fill in the gaps after Raines's disappearance.

The screen's glow cast a sickly pallor over my hands as I typed. There was nothing under his name in recent years, but something made me dig deeper, searching for unsolved arsons with similar signatures. The parameters were specific: controlled burns, precise ventilation manipulation, and artistic elements in the destruction.

A case from 2017 caught my attention: a house fire in Olympia that had claimed two lives. The victims were never officially identified, but a note in the file mentioned one might have been a retired fire chief. The fuel patterns matched Raines's knowledge base—the same surgical precision and understanding of how buildings breathed.

A small detail buried in the supplementary reports made my blood run cold. A witness had mentioned seeing the suspect at local galleries in the weeks before the fire, particularly exhibitions focusing on "transformative art."

I scrolled further, finding fragments that began forming a darker picture. I found references to an underground group that treated fire as a sacrament. They called themselves The Pyreborn Covenant. Their beliefs centered around the purifying power of flame and how it could reshape matter into something transcendent. I couldn't miss the word "reborn" buried in the name.

My phone buzzed again. It was another text from Sarah:

"Found trace elements in the factory debris. High-end photography chemicals. The kind used in professional darkrooms."

The pieces clicked together with terrible clarity. Raines hadn't disappeared—he'd evolved. The fire academy dropout had become something far more dangerous: an artist who saw destruction as creation.

And now he'd found his perfect subject.

I pulled up the training log we'd recovered from Marcus's gym. The handwriting in the margins matched Raines's academy evaluations. The same precise strokes and same intensity bleeding through every observation.

"Maintains form despite obvious fatigue... Pushing past normal limitations... Becoming what fire demands..."

The words blurred as exhaustion and caffeine battled in my system. I couldn't stop when I finally understood what we were dealing with.

Raines wasn't trying to destroy Marcus.

He was trying to remake him.

The realization drove me from my chair. I paced between the archive shelves, my shadow jumping ahead of me as motion sensors tracked my movement. Every training log entry and surveillance photo took on new meaning. It wasn't merely documentation of a physical process—it was a transformation journal.

My fingers shook as I dialed Marcus's number. He answered on the first ring, his voice rough with the same exhaustion that clawed at my edges.

"James?"

"I found him." The words tumbled out before I could soften them. "I know who's watching you."

A pause. Then, "Tell me."

"Elliot Raines. He was a fire academy candidate in 2012. Top of his class in fire behavior analysis until—" I swallowed hard. "Until he trapped three probationary firefighters in a training fire. Said he wanted them to understand what fire could do to them. What it could make them become."

"Walsh's old case." I heard the catch in Marcus's breath. "I remember him talking about it. A trainee who—"

"Who disappeared before they could press charges. But he didn't stop, Marcus. He found others who shared his beliefs about fire as transformation—a group called The Pyreborn Covenant."

"The chemical residues at the factory." I heard Marcus piecing everything together. "The artistic elements. He's not only studying me, is he?"

"No." My throat tightened. "He's trying to reshape you. Every fire, every message—steps in what he sees as your transformation. The way you push yourself in training, how you fight through pain... He sees it as preparation."

"For what?"

"His masterpiece. He's going to try to make you transcend through fire, like some sort of phoenix. Like he tried with those trainees. Like he's probably done to others we haven't found yet."

Silence stretched between us. When Marcus spoke again, his voice was edgy. "You're not telling me everything."

"The Olympia fire in 2017. Two victims. One was possibly a retired fire chief. But Marcus—their bodies weren't only burned. He positioned them."I swallowed hard.

"Firefighters found them kneeling, hands clasped together, almost like a prayer—or an offering. The heat had calcified their remains into statues of charred bone, backs unnaturally arched as if frozen in the moment of surrender. Marcus, it was like a dress rehearsal for what he's planning now."

"James. Come over."

"It's late, I should—"

"Please."

That single word shattered what remained of my professional distance. "Give me twenty minutes."

I gathered the most crucial files, knowing that removing them would violate a dozen regulations. But regulations didn't matter anymore—not when I finally understood what we were facing.

Not when I knew how much I stood to lose.

Not when taking them could save a life.

As I shut the last archive box, something caught my eye. A single sheet of paper,crisp and clean, rested on the table beside my notes. I hadn't pulled it from the files and knew it hadn't been there before.

The ink was fresh.

"Transformation is inevitable."

***

The drive to Marcus's apartment passed in a blur of streetlights and half-formed theories. Every shadow on the road could have been someone watching, documenting, and planning. My messenger bag sat heavy in the passenger seat, stuffed with records I'd probably lose my job over for removing them from the archives.

Rain started falling as I parked, fat drops.

Marcus's door opened before I could knock. He stood there in worn academy sweats. The apartment behind him smelled of coffee and his muscle rub.

"Show me everything," he said, stepping back to let me in.

I spread the files across his kitchen table, the same surface where we'd crossed professional lines just days ago. The irony wasn't lost on me. Neither was how his shoulder brushed mine as he leaned in to study Raines's academy photo.

"Jesus. I remember him. He used to watch our training runs and said he was studying technique for the academy. Always had a camera."

"He was documenting even then, and they should have caught him. Somehow, he slipped through the cracks." My fingers traced the psychological evaluation. "The assessor noted his unusual fixation on physical transformation through extreme conditions."

"The warehouse fires." Marcus straightened, tension radiating from his spine. "The gym. They weren't about watching me train. They were—"

"Tests." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "He's been evaluating your response to escalating pressure. Studying how you push through pain and maintain control when everything's burning around you."

"Because he wants to break that control."

"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "He wants to prove you're worthy of his transformation. Every fire, every message—they're steps in what he sees as your journey toward transcendence."

Marcus's hand landed on my shoulder, steadying me. "James. Breathe."

I hadn't realized how fast my heart was racing until his touch anchored me. "You don't understand. The Olympia victim... they found evidence of systematic exposure to increasing temperatures. It was like someone was trying to build their tolerance. Training them to—"

"To become one with the fire." Marcus's grip tightened fractionally. "Like he tried with those trainees."

The overhead light caught the fading bruise on his throat—evidence of how close I'd already come to losing him. My fingers reached up without permission, brushing the mark. "We have to stop him."

"We will." His other hand caught mine where it rested against his pulse. "But first, you need to tell me what's really scaring you."

The question startled me. I tried to step back, to retreat behind analysis and evidence, but Marcus's grip held firm.

"What's scaring me?" My laugh sounded hollow. "A certified psychopath is turning your training into performance art. He's documenting every lap, every mile, every moment you push past normal limits. And I can't—" My voice cracked. "I can't stop seeing patterns. Can't stop calculating how each fire brings him closer to his endgame."

Marcus's thumb brushed my wrist, grounding me. "You're not responsible for his obsession."

"Aren't I?" The words spilled out. "Every time I analyze a scene and document a pattern, I feed into his narrative. Helping him refine his methodology. And the whole time, I'm terrified that my professional detachment, my need to understand everything through data and evidence, is going to get you killed."

"Look at me." His voice had the same quiet authority he used to direct his crew. When I met his gaze, the intensity there stole my breath. "It's not only analysis anymore. It hasn't been since that first warehouse scene."

"That's what scares me most." A massive lump grew in my throat. "I thought I was scared of losing you. But that's not it. I'm scared because, for the first time, I want something more than answers. I want you. And I don't know how to survive if this case takes you from me. Every time you push yourself in training and chase a lead without backup—I'm calculating odds I don't want to know."

His hand moved to cup my jaw, calluses rough against my skin. "Then stop calculating. Stop trying to protect me by pushing me away."

"Marcus—"

"No." His thumb traced my lower lip. "You want to know what Raines doesn't understand? What all his surveillance and documentation missed?"

I couldn't speak, caught in the gravity of his touch.

"I don't push my limits because I'm chasing some kind of transcendence." His voice dropped lower. "I do it because there are things worth fighting for. Worth protecting."

The space between us disappeared by inches.

"James," Marcus whispered my name. "Stop thinking. Just—"

His lips pressed against mine with devastating precision. There was no hesitation this time, no pretense of professional distance. Just raw need and the weight of everything we'd been fighting.

My hands fisted in his shirt, analysis falling away as his teeth scraped my lower lip. The files scattered as he lifted me onto the table, evidence spilling forgotten to the floor.

"Wait." I managed to pull back, though my body screamed at the loss of contact. "The case—Raines—"

"We're standing in the middle of the fire, James. It's burning whether we move or not. So maybe, for now, we hold on to something that isn't trying to destroy us." Marcus's voice was rough against my throat. "Right now, I need you to stop being Dr. Reynolds. Stop analyzing. Just be here."

"I am here. That's what terrifies me."

He pulled back enough to meet my eyes. "Why?"

"Because I can't separate the investigator from—" I gestured helplessly between us. "From this. From how much I—" The words stuck.

"From how much you what?" His hands gripped my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.

"From how much I need you safe. And I can't—won't—watch you become his masterpiece because I let myself get distracted by wanting—"

"By wanting what?" He exhaled into my mouth.

"Everything." The admission was like leaping off a cliff. "You. This. A future where we both survive what's coming."

Something fierce and protective flashed in his eyes. Then his mouth was on mine again and thought became impossible.

Papers crackled beneath us as he pressed me back against the table. Raines's case files scattered while psychological evaluations and crime scene photos drifted to the floor like autumn leaves.

For once, I didn't try to collect them. Didn't try to maintain order.

I let myself fall.