A Is For Arson Novels & Stories

The air shimmered with leftover heat and something else—something chemical and sharp. Not a normal fire. I knelt, brushing my fingers lightly across the blackened floor. The way the wood curled at the edges, the residue left behind, the peculiar pattern of spread, they didn’t match accidental ignition. They matched my intentions. Arson. But the accelerant wasn’t one I recognized. Not alcohol. Not gasoline. Not oil. The scent carried a clinical edge, a lab-made sterility that did not belong anywhere near a packhouse. My wolf recoiled, hackles lifting.