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The scent of burnt sugar and rust hangs thick in the abandoned fairground—collapsed tents like dying elephants, skeletal Ferris wheel joints screeching in the wind. Jamie's boots crunch over shattered glass as she thumbs the lighter in her pocket, grinning at Chloe's wide-eyed stare.
"Happy birthday, princess. Demonic enough for you?"
Chloe's laugh is sharp, her accent curling heavier around the edges. "You dragged me here for this? While the others hunt lizards?" But her fingers twitch toward the flamethrower strapped to her back—always instinctive, like reaching for a lover’s hand.
Jamie kicks a rotten plush toy aside. "Better than candles." She pulls a flask from her coat, the silver catching the weak December light. "Besides, last time you got sentimental, you set three guys on fire. Thought I’d skip the middleman."
Chloe’s smile fades just for a second—long enough for Jamie to notice. That night in Lyon, the way her sister’s perfume clung to her fiancé’s collar. The way fire felt cleaner than tears. But now, Jamie’s pressing the flask into her palm, warm from being tucked against her ribs all day.
"Drink. Then we burn something proper."
The wind howls through the ticket booth’s broken windows. Somewhere distant, a branch snaps like a gunshot.
Chloe takes a swig. "D’accord. But if Jackson asks—"
"—we didn't see the reptiles," Jamie finishes, already striking the lighter. The flame reflects in Chloe’s eyes, bright and alive.