to the wall and opened the door from the side. He
flinched and his hands flew over his ears, ready for
gunshots. Instead there was the soft click of a pull chain
and dim light spilled into the hall outside the apartment.
Now Phoenix, he filled the room with a warning
gout of cool, bright blue fire before rounding the corner.
The blast had left smoldering patches on the old floral
print wallpaper. Otherwise the packed but cozy living
room was just the same as he had left it that morning.
A figure, silhouetted against the flames, stood up
from where it sat in Arthur’s favorite antique armchair.
“Tsk, tsk. You should be more careful,” a man
said. “It would be a shame if you destroyed all your
lovely things.”
Phoenix forced his flames to dim so he could get
a better look. The man was rather short, with bright
blonde hair and a narrow face. Phoenix had made many
enemies in his lifetime, but this man neither looked nor
sounded like any of them. Of course, there were plenty
of ways those villainous rogues could hide their
identities, the least of which was to wear a mask.
“Who are you?” Phoenix managed to muster his
well-practiced authority voice, his flames flaring, his
throat dry. Something about him is unsettling, he
thought, like the kind of person who borrows money and
never pays it back.
54