The next morning brought cool winds to the city of Minneapolis. Veronica zipped up her yellow hooded jacket before stepping out from her apartment.

  Students jogged and pet lovers walked their dogs on Mississippi Drive—a two-way road, resurfaced from its aged red bricks to asphalt pavement located behind Palm Oaks. Puffy clouds littered the skies and small streaks of sunlight occasionally peeked through them. The apartment building resided in a college-oriented community complete with bike racks, coffee shops, and used clothing stores. A man no older than Veronica stood on the street corner, playing his guitar to an audience of a few passersby.

  This is the Minneapolis I remember.

  Compared to the abandoned buildings of the warehouse district, the surroundings seemed serene enough to give her a sense of belonging. She stopped a local jogger and questioned him about the district, learning that the area grew rampant over time with city police when the fires first started.

  The jogger frowned in distaste. “You wouldn’t catch me there.”

  Unfortunately, I have to go there. She thanked the jogger and they parted ways. She then signaled a passing taxi to take her to the house fire. Upon entering the taxi, the smell of old cigarettes and wet upholstery snaked up her nostrils. She gripped the back of the driver’s seat when the taxi sped off.

  The taxi sped through multiple intersections and only at Washington Avenue and Tenth Street did he decrease his speed.

  “Are we there yet?” Her body reeled from the driver’s inability to drive in a straight line.

  “No, no, I tell you when.” The driver’s broken English confirmed Veronica’s uneasiness. The taxi came to a screeching halt at a stoplight. Her eyes shifted to the left at the cemetery. She recognized the area from her childhood. Wilkes Cemetery was protected by the Minnesota Historical Society, making it just one of the oldest and rarest locations in the city. She recalled her mother’s admiration for its weathered, sunken headstones and unkempt plots.

  The taxi continued down the street. The scenery turned from storefronts to Victorian homes and towering brick buildings. Again, the taxi screeched to a halt at a stoplight.

  “Drop me off right here.”

  “House is down there. I drop you closer.”

  “No, it’s fine. Right here.”

  The driver parked the taxi and laid the back of his hand on the top of the passenger seat. “Fifteen dollars and twenty cents.”

  She handed him a twenty dollar bill and exited. The taxi sped away, leaving a cloud of exhaust, which engulfed her. She looked up at a green street sign that read “29th Avenue.” She was only one block east from her desired location.

  Cold wind stung the tips of her ears. Dried and dead leaves raced along the sidewalk in miniature tornadoes. The area was uncanny and a little quiet for what she expected. She wrapped her arms around her body, taking baby steps while reading bright yellow and orange graffiti covering the walls of the building next to her.

  Across the street, charred remains of the house were clearly visible and sectioned off with yellow police tape. A group of people stood across the street gawking at the destruction. The only part of the house standing was a burned back wall. Black and gray smoke floated from the middle of the home while firefighters combed through the remains.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Sean was right.

  This was just the first of many destroyed sanctuaries Veronica would witness and she had to prepare herself for it. The Deamhan were burning each other out of house and home!

  She walked over to a group of onlookers. An older woman with brown and gray intermixed hair turned to speak. “Isn’t it just horrible?” The woman folded her arms across her chest. The corners of her mouth dropped in discontent. Flaccid wrinkles stifled her face. “The police has to do something about this. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I saw it on the news last night,” Veronica replied. “How many homes have burned now?”

  “A dozen or so.” The old woman’s focus remained centered on the burned ruins. “Thank God no one was hurt.” She exalted. “It was a lovely home. I just can’t imagine what the couple and their children are going to do.”

  “A family lived there?”

  “Yeah. And those poor kids.” The old woman turned to Veronica again. “It was a home for at risk youths.”

  “At risk youths?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.” The woman lifted her head and smacked her lips. “Those kids had medical issues. I spoke to their adoptive parents, God fearing people.” She paused then continued. “They stayed up into the wee hours of the morning sometimes, helpin’ those children.” She pointed to the opposite street corner. “See that lot over there?”

  She followed the woman’s gaze.

  “Another house went up just last week. It’s those juvenile delinquents. They have nothing better to do.” She then pointed at a gray windowless van parked halfway down the street. “And that van drives up and down this street daily. I’ve called the cops about it, but they don’t do anything.”

  She realized that nothing fit the stereotypical sanctuary Sean warned her about. The old woman mixed gossip with reality. There was no way Deamhan would sire children. It was against their own rules to do so.

  “Hoodlums are turning this neighborhood into a war zone,” the old woman stressed.

  “Was there anyone home at the time of the fire?”

  “God, I hope not.” The woman grasped her chest. “The poor, poor children.”

  She doubted the woman was that hurt or even cared as much as she let on. Veronica scanned the crowd of housewives and older women. She overheard their conversations; mainly gossip and accusations, which didn’t help her investigation. They had no idea about the real horrors happening in the city. And didn’t want to fathom what could happen if they did know.

  Her eyes caught sight of a short, thin woman standing alone near the edge of the crowd. She appeared unconcerned at the gossip, instead staring at the ruins. The young woman looked up and her eyes met her own.

  “This city needs more cops,” the old woman continued on her rant.

  Veronica turned back to her, nodded, and then returned her gaze to the mysterious young woman. Her smooth blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her clear blue eyes remained fixed on her. She wore a brown leather jacket, a white shirt, and blue jeans—definitely too young to blend in with the “housewives” in the crowd. She didn’t belong.

  “Are you new to the neighborhood, sweetie?” Again, the older woman swayed Veronica’s attention. “I hope this doesn’t influence your opinion about the area. Most of our families have lived in this area for generations.”

  “That’s cool.” Veronica neglected the woman’s stare. Her eyes remained glued on the mysterious woman, watching her pivot slowly. The woman walked down the street, glancing back over her shoulder. The sound of a cop car’s sirens broke the air.

  “Is your family from Minneapolis?”

  Veronica ignored the question. Following her hunch, she took off after the mysterious woman.

  The woman disappeared around the corner and she picked up her pace. She stopped once she reached the corner, noticing that the woman had vanished.

  “Hello,” She called out. Baffled, she turned back to the crowd. Her thoughts raced. For once she felt calm, thinking that the woman was a researcher, but what could be relaxing about that? The thought crossed her mind of coming back later that night to investigate the burned house. It was closely followed by the nightmarish fact of being out alone at night. Waiting wasn’t a bad option either, yet the longer she waited, the more impatient she became.

  The fires would have to wait …for now.