[Author's Note: Submitted for the February 2022 writing contest with the theme of "Valentine's Day." It begins and ends in mystery.]
CHAPTER I: WORDS OF FIRE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
February 13th, 2019.
Corner of Irving Street and Mount Pleasant Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C.
7:05 p.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Martin's foot left the curb of Irving Street and swung down into the snow. It was falling heavily now, with gusts of wind flinging the specks into dizzying patterns.
A layer dusted the black asphalt. A few trails of footprints broke through the softness. There were not many; all of Washington, D.C. seemed to shut down when new snow came. Especially after dark. Especially when the wind could send little pieces of ice down your collar. Martin hunched his shoulders and shivered.
As he left the crosswalk and met the cracked concrete, Martin stopped in his tracks.
An untouched blanket of snow lay on the sidewalk.
In a city that breathed in and out a million commuters every day, that undisturbed patch of white on Mt. Pleasant Avenue felt like a miracle. No workers strode briskly past talking on cellphones. No tourists gawking and pulling along their children. Just a clean, pure canvas.
Martin stood for half a second and watched the flakes drifting down on this pristine wonder.
Then thoughts of all the work he still had to do shouted in his brain. A half-billion-dollar defense department procurement was on the line, and if it fell through it was on his shoulders. Charles Wilson at the agency would go into one of his dreaded swearing fits (double chin quivering) if this didn't get done
tonight
. Martin was not worried; he knew how to play this game, and he played to win.
Pulling his gray trench coat tighter across his wide, powerful chest, Martin continued trudging straight ahead.
Without warning, a roaring fire filled his mind.
The world burst into invisible colors. Every separate thing began to blend together - the snow, the sidewalk, his breath, the thoughts in his head. The edge of every snowflake began to shine. Something enormously bright began to fall from the sky: large cursive words like white-hot fire lancing down out of the dark into the lights of streetlamps. Smashing into the ground, they melted, hissing violently. Steam rushed up, glowing with an inner light. He breathed it in. Something cold inside snapped. His chest was warm. His groin was hot. Something molten was building in his stomach. He began to melt.
Martin stumbled, his knees weak. Panting, he shut his eyes. Wisps of vapor rose from his mouth.
Slowly the sensation passed. When he opened his eyes again, the street was as it was before. A black Lexus with gleaming blue headlights roared through a yellow light, splashing crushed snow onto the corner near his leather shoes. Little flakes floated down onto the quiet blanket of snow.
"Not again," Martin whispered. He gritted his teeth. He stared at the snow.
"I don't have
time
for this," he muttered viciously.
Hurriedly, he took a step back towards the intersection, then hesitated. His muscles could not seem to move forward.
Without thinking, he drifted slightly to his right onto the sidewalk. Some distant part of him noted that the streets rarely seemed to meet at square corners in D.C.
He heard his feet crunching into the virgin snow.
Not far down the block he stopped. In a daze, he bent down, stretching out a leather-gloved finger, and began to draw. Looping cursive letters in the snow appeared behind his hand.
He became lost in his work. No one walked by as he slowly made his way up the block. Finishing the last letter, he stepped back to look at the long line of words twisting through the snow. Only his single set of footprints broke through his frozen canvas. It was a poem -- the same one he had seen burning down from the heavens.
Dazed, he turned his face towards the sky, his eyes open wide. A kaleidoscope of flakes fell in flurries, flashing in and out of the lights from the streetlamp. A fat one hit his eye, making him blink wildly. Others melted on his nose and cheeks.
He shivered. He watched the mist of his breath mix with swirls.
"Come on ...
Come on
! Goddammit, just
happen
already."
Martin glowered and stamped his feet. He pulled out his cell phone and checked for any updates from Wilson. Occasionally, a car would hum by, making wet sounds as it rushed past. The snow resting on every surface deafened most smaller sounds.
Looking behind him, he saw some kind of eatery with bright windows. An inviting wood counter with tall stools faced out the window. Something cold began to melt down his collar.
"Whatever the hell it is, I can wait just as well in there," Martin grumbled. "It's goddamn cold out here."
Climbing up the short flight of stairs, Martin pushed through the double doors. He stopped short when he saw a sign with dozens of different flavors hanging in big block letters on the wall:
BlueBerry Cream
Salted Caramel
Cookies and Cream
Chocolate Wasabi ...
"An ice cream shop," he said flatly. "A
hipster
ice cream shop. In a snowstorm."
A bored-looking young woman in a green apron looked up, evincing a mild look of surprise. Once she saw Martin, she gave his muscled frame an appreciative head-to-toe.
"Anything I can help you with?" she said with a warm smile, looking up at him through her eyelashes. She unconsciously threw back her shoulders.
Martin glowered and half-turned towards the door. This was not exactly the best weather for a cold scoop of ice cream.
Still, the place was warm, and the view out the window was clear. Based on how the twenty-something woman behind the counter was looking at him (she was pretty, with freckles, and a pierced nose) she probably would have let him sit down for free, but he liked to pay his own way.
"Sure, just give me a minute," he replied, giving her a friendly, but professional nod. "Lots of great options."
He absently checked his phone. Date: February 13th. Time: 19:35. He still had plenty of bandwidth tonight to work on the contract.
Martin pulled off his leather gloves as he started to scan through the dizzying array of flavors. "Cookies and Cream" sounded straight-forward. "Thai Chili" was pretty clear, too--strange, but clear. But what was "Kulfi?" For the life of him he could not figure it out.
The jingle of a bell rang out behind him. A woman in a long, knee-length black jacket and fitted white jeans walked into the shop. She stamped snow off leather boots laced up to mid-calf. Shaking flakes off the edges of her hood--which was lined with soft faux fur--she pulled it down off her head.
The first things Martin noticed were her eyes. They were like deep pools. Almost black, but warm and liquid, with endless depth. Her smooth skin was almost the same shade as her eyes-- like dark chocolate. The cheeks were high and defined. Eyebrows arched away from naturally long eyelashes. Full lips shone with some kind of gloss, and--
"Are you okay?" She looked up at him with those expressive eyes, her eyebrows slightly raised in curiosity. Her voice was warm, with a slight lilt to it that he could not place.
Martin realized that he had been staring. "Beautiful - uh ... all good, I mean. Apologies; I just didn't expect anyone else to be here. It's a bit cold. You know, for ice cream."
The woman slightly cocked an eyebrow. Martin continued in a rush in his rich baritone voice. "Not that the
ice cream
is too cold. I've never had ice cream here-- I assume it's cold. The weather. It's too cold, not just the cream. The iced kind of cream. Cold ice cream."
Martin clamped his teeth on the tip of his tongue to shut himself up. What had gotten into him? He was babbling. He knew how to dominate a room filled with three-star generals and a Cabinet-level Secretary, but here he was rambling about ice cream. He made a show of examining the flavor choices, trying to piece together what little pride he had left.
"Yes, the ice cream is cold; the weather is, as well." There was a hint of restrained laughter in her voice. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw her looking down to wipe snow off her jacket. Her breasts were full enough that a hint of their curves was visible even through the thick padding.
She stroked flakes off her thin, intricate braids. The wave of braids mostly fell along one side of her face, their ends touching the curve of her neck. Her lips subtly tilted up, almost a smile, but her face was distant: like most of her thoughts were somewhere far away. He wondered what it would look like if she really smiled, not just--
"Do you know what you're going to order?" Her eyebrows arched even higher. Martin realized he had been gazing for a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable. He wrenched his eyes back up to the menu.
"I'm afraid I can't decide." He gestured in front of him gallantly, stepping to the side. "Please, go ahead, if you're ready."
"Thank you," she murmured.
She looked at him for a moment, her expression inscrutable, then turned her attention back up to the menu.
Martin took her in from behind. Something about her was magnetic. Perhaps it was the way she held her chin. Dignified, yet calm. There was a brightness about her, not-so-deeply hidden.
"Any intel on the Kulfi?" Martin asked in a firm but friendly voice. "I've got the gist of the rest, but that one's got me stumped."
"Well, actually," the bubbly voice of the pink pierced twenty-year-old broke in as she gave Martin a warm smile, "the Kulfi is a great combo of flavors from--" she cut off sharply as the other woman quickly held up a single rich brown index finger.
The finger firmly ticked back and forth.
"Just a moment," she said smoothly, not taking her eyes off Martin. The girl in the apron shut her mouth with a click.
"Intel, hmmm?" Her glossy lips twitched upwards a little more. She tapped a silver-painted fingernail against her mouth. "I might know something. But that information could be dangerous in the wrong hands."
Martin gave a wry half smile. "Need-to-know basis, right?"
The woman nodded her head gravely. "I'm afraid so."
Martin muffled his humor and put on a serious, concerned look. "Listen, ma'am, I respect your concerns. But the lives of good men are on the line, and by God I don't have time to play games. I need that intel, and I need it
now.
"
She shook her head slowly. "Typical. Brute force will get you nowhere, I'm afraid. I'm going to need something more from you, big man."
Martin was six foot three and barrel-chested-- he knew the effect his physical presence had in a room. He leaned a little closer. "Alright, if you want to dance, let's dance. I know you have the intel. You know what I want. So, tell me, lady-in-the-know, what do
you
want?"
