It's 1968 and the Summer of Love from two years ago is a thing of the forgotten past. Martin Luther King Jr. and his dream die at an assassin’s hand that April, while RFK is gunned down before he can continue his older brother’s work in the White House. President Johnson continues to escalate the war in Vietnam under the hopes of getting North Vietnam to the table before his presidential term is up. The country roils with uncertainty and chaos as riots and protests break out across the nation on seemingly a weekly basis. Riots and protests grip the nation, from everywhere to the nation's capital in Washington, to rural South Carolina.

In Los Angeles an arsonist terrorizes the city with fire after fire. LA Fire Department arson investigator Charlie Rembrandt begins to see a dark pattern emerging across the map of burn sites. His investigation leads him to the doorstep of James August, a self-described mage and master of all things magical. August has also been investigated in the arsonists and what it means to the mystical world. Together, the two men form a makeshift alliance and discover a vast and sweeping conspiracy across the city of angels. Fire, magic, murder, kidnappings, and a dark svengali at the center of a web of power and debauchery.

August 6th, 1968
Encino, Los Angeles

The rusty and battered Ford pickup crept down the gravel road. Night had fallen on the San Fernando Valley, and this far out of the city the only real light were the truck’s two headlights. Inside the truck’s cab, the cherry red glow of a cigarette tip floated from side to side as the Cowpoke exhaled smoke from his nostrils.

Elton Britt’s yodeling came out the radio while the Cowpoke squinted to see through the pickup’s dirty windshield. The headlights shone on a wooden sign that read FUTURE HOME OF PACIFIC VILLAS: COMING LATE 1969. This was the place. The truck rolled along the gravel road past the sign and down over a small hill. The gravel stretched down below the hill in a road laid out in a grid pattern. The bones of half a dozen homes were below with the foundations of at least three dozen more across the grid. Construction equipment and earthmovers were parked for the night.

The Cowpoke rolled the pickup down the hill and came to a stop outside one of the half built homes. He left the engine running and the lights on as he climbed out the truck and walked towards the house. The cigarette in his mouth was down to the nub. He spat it out and paused to pull out a fresh smoke from the packet. His zippo with the Indian head engraving on it lit up as he put flame to a new cigarette. The dim light of the zippo showed a face weathered and cracked by the sun.

The boards creaked as the Cowpoke walked across what would become the house’s porch. He stepped through the opening that was supposed to be the front door. Even with the lights of his truck barely casting into the house he could see the leftovers of their handy work. Blood on the walls, cooled candle wax on the floor, and the smell of blood and wine in the air.

The body on the floor was like the last few he had seen. Dead as hell and all carved up. Blood ran with violet body paint on the body and made it all one big mess. The Cowpoke took a long drag off his cigarette before exhaling smoke into the air and shaking his head. He’d seen cattle treated with more dignity than these people treated other humans. But who the hell was he to judge?

Another fresh cigarette in his mouth and he was back at the truck, this time unloading his tools from the bed and walking back into the house. He splashed gasoline around the body in a swirling pattern that went outward across the room. The instructions were very specific on the pattern he had to follow. He emptied the last of the can on the unfinished house’s porch before stepping down the stairs to his truck. He reached into the breast pocket of his pearl snap shirt and pulled out the device. It was a simple cigarette with three matchbooks tied to it with rubber bands. The Cowpoke pulled his zippo out and lit the tip of the cigarette. He carefully walked back towards the house and placed the device down at the end of the gas trail. The tip of the cigarette glowed and began to slowly burn its way down.

The Cowpoke drove the truck up the hill and parked at the top. He left the engine running, but killed the lights. He knew the fuse would take about ten minutes to burn down to the matchbooks. From there the matches would alight and catch the gasoline on fire.With all the construction material and still to be cleared brush surrounding the lots, in fifteen minutes this whole part of the San Fernando Valley would be in flames.

A light shone from the half-built house below as the fire caught. The Cowpoke began to breathe heavily as he saw it all catch flames. He coughed and felt his jeans grow tight in the crotch as the fire began to engulf it all. These people he was dealing with, the ones who paid him to clean up their messes. They could have their fun all they wanted to. They slaughtered them like cows, sure. But the fire… it didn’t care. The flames consumed man and beast alike. It didn’t care about your station in life or how much you had to offer. The fire was the great equalizer in this world. And The Cowpoke had seen it's power over the years firsthand. Men and women and children burned to a crisp by the flames. It was all so beautiful.

A loud hacking fit seized the Cowpoke suddenly. He spat a wad of bloody phlem from his mouth and out the truck window. The flames had grown across the entire development now. Seemed as if Pacific Villas would have to change that sign... coming in 1970... or 1971. He Cowpoke laughed heartily and started to turn his truck away from the flames.

August 7th, 1968
Encino, Los Angeles

Charlie Rembrandt's '57 Nissan Bluebird rolled along the road steadily. He glanced at his watch: 7:48 AM. He got the call an hour ago, was told that a construction site had been burnt down overnight. The firefighters were trying their best to suppress the flames burning on in the fields around the site, while the cops were on the scene keeping the burnt down homes secure as they awaited his arrival. He rolled on past a wooden sign declaring the place the home of some villas, down the hill and towards the projects. Where once skeletons of houses stood now there was only charcoal. A small crowd of civvies, probably reporters, was gathered outside of one of the homes and being held at bay by a squad of the boys in blue.

Rembrandt parked his car and stepped out, taking a moment to pull the flask from his inner coat pocket and gulp down some whiskey. He hacked a bit at the bitter taste, then pocketed the flask and stepped forward. Pushing his way through the crowd of journalists, he made his way to the front and presented his badge to the officers. "Rembrandt, LAFD Arson Investigator," Charlie said. The cops made way for him and he stepped into the husk of the home. "Anyone been in here yet?" he asked the nearest cop.

"No, sir. We haven't stepped inside," a young man with a badge reading 'McCall' replied.

"Good. Don't need you fucking it up," Rembrandt spat as he stepped into what would've been the foyer. McCall snarled, then stepped back in formation. Rembrandt took a look around, starting with the floor. The wood was scorched, though slightly less so in a strange swirling pattern in the center of the room, one he had seen before. He looked ahead and saw a charred corpse there, burnt beyond recognition. Most men would've lost their lunch at the sight, but Rembrandt was used to it this far along in his career. He pulled out a notepad and a pencil, scribbling down his thoughts.

Likely gasoline used as accelerant, swirling pattern drawn with the splashes. Same pattern we found in the Park Avenue Apartments in Burbank last month. Another corpse too. Are the fires trying to cover them up? Or draw attention to them?

Rembrandt finished writing and pocketed the pad and pencil, stepping back out of the house. He looked to McCall. "Fire was started with gasoline. Found a stiff in there too, burnt to shit. Same MO as a few cases I've seen this past year. Get homicide down here to look at the body. Not sure there's any evidence that wasn't burned down though."

McCall grunted in acknowledgement, still not pleased with Rembrandt. "We'll get Fairfield down here."

Rembrandt felt bile rising in his throat just at the thought. Fairfield, the old bastard. His former partner on homicide, taught him the ropes of the job. Was also the one that let it slip that Charlie was seeing that singer on the side. If Charlie ever saw him again, he'd either punch him or put a bullet in him. For Fairfield's safety and Rembrandt's peace of mind, he had to get out of here. "You do that," he replied, before walking back to his car.

He sat in the car for a moment, taking another swig from his flask. With a sigh, he started the car up and made his way out of the valley and back to the city. He had to get back to the station and write up a report on this.