Spark

by Brigid Kemmerer

  His voice was gentler. “Layne, I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “I just want you to be safe. I know you’ve been dealing with a lot.” He paused. “I’m sorry I haven’t been home much lately.”

  She looked up at him, feeling a flash of guilt. “It’s not your fault. We all have to do our part.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks for taking on so much.”

  She nodded.

  He stood and moved toward the doorway. She slid back under the covers.

  But then he stopped before closing the door. “Layne?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t bring him over here when I’m not home.”

  Like there was much chance of that. But still. Anger made her sit straight up again. “You don’t trust me?”

  He laughed like she’d said something truly funny. “Oh, Layne, I trust you plenty. Good night, sweetheart.”

  Then he shut the door.

  And all she could think about was Gabriel Merrick.

  About how much she wanted to hit him. Really hard. Right where it would count.

  But worse, about how much she’d liked, just for an instant, the way his arms felt when he’d caught her on the staircase.

  CHAPTER 11

  Following a fire truck was harder than he expected. Gabriel couldn’t blow through red lights, and people sure as hell weren’t pulling over to give him the right of way. Once, he thought he’d lost the truck, but then he heard the wail of a siren and caught a flash of lights through the trees. Two turns and he found them.

  He parked half a mile down the road, part of a line of cars along the curb. He cracked the window and sat for a minute. He’d worried this might be a false alarm, like a sparking outlet or a cat in a tree or some crap like that.

  But something was burning—he could feel fire calling him even from here.

  Come play.

  He took a deep breath. In it, he tasted smoke.

  Like his own community, the houses here were widely spaced, with lots of trees to provide plenty of shade. People were already wandering down the street to gawk at the destruction. Better than TV.

  Like he was in a position to judge.

  He thought about walking down the street with everyone else. But there was a chance he might be recognized. Kids from school lived in this neighborhood, and he’d helped Michael with a few jobs over here. One of his favorite running trails ran right through the woods behind the houses.

  He walked up a driveway nonchalantly, like he was going to head up the front walk. No cars sat in front of the garage, and the drapes were all drawn, so he walked right past the front door, around the corner, and into the woods.

  The trees here weren’t quite as dense as behind his own house, but the sun had set and his clothes were dark. He slipped between the trunks, following the call of his element until his eyes could take over.

  Gabriel stopped short at the tree line. Smoke poured through every window of the two-story home. Fire blazed through what was left of the roof. Smoke detectors were definitely working—they screeched into the darkness and gave Gabriel a shot of adrenaline he so didn’t need.

  Firefighters had smashed most of the windows on the first level, but they were working toward the back. Gabriel felt the flames cheer at the presence of more oxygen. Radios crackled with static and commands. People were yelling incoherently in the front yard. He could barely make out the words over those damned smoke detectors. Flashover . . . stairs unstable . . . pull out . . .

  Then a woman screamed in the front yard, a sound full of anguish that twisted something in his chest. He’d heard a sound like that once.

  Gabriel had to put a hand against a tree. He shouldn’t have come here.

  Come play.

  Smoke was everywhere. He clenched his eyes shut. It felt like he couldn’t breathe again.

  The fire thought it was a game. A sick, twisted, cruel game of destruction.

  Come. Play.

  The worst part was that he wanted to.

  “You all right?”

  The voice spoke from his shoulder. Gabriel almost came out of his frigging skin. He actually staggered into the tree before his heart would slow down enough to let him talk.

  “Hunter,” he choked.

  “Yeah?”

  Gabriel got it together and pushed off the tree to punch him in the chest. “What the hell is wrong with you? Jesus.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  His heart still wasn’t too sure about that. “What are you doing here? Go home.”

  Hunter shrugged and looked past him at the house. “I followed you. What are you doing here?”

  He’d followed him?

  “Dude, I’m not playing.” Gabriel stepped close and pointed up the street. “Get out of here.”

  Hunter didn’t move. “You want to go in, don’t you?”

  Yes.

  Gabriel sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Go home, Hunter.”

  “Did you hear them? The firemen have been ordered out. There’s still someone inside, but there was something called a flashover. Do you know what that means?”

  A flashover meant the fire had gotten too hot, and with nowhere else for that heat to go, the interior of the house was being consumed. The heat would be enough to kill anyone before the fire even got to them. No wonder they weren’t hitting the house with hose trucks—nothing to do now but let it burn to the ground.

  Someone inside.

  Gabriel bit the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. It’s bad.”

  From the front yard, that woman screamed again. His heart kicked.

  “What if they’re still alive?” said Hunter. His breathing sounded quick.

  “What if they are?” Gabriel snapped. “You think thirty firemen are just going to let me walk in the front door? Do you have any idea how hot it must be inside that house?”

  “Look.” Hunter pointed at an ambulance parked on the grass along the side of the house.

  Gabriel looked. A fireman was on a stretcher, not moving. Someone held one of those breathing bags over his face. Other people were doing . . . something. Fast and rapid and almost panicked. He had no idea.

  Hunter grabbed his arm and shook him. “No, there. His gear is lying in the grass.” He started untying one of the twine bracelets at his wrist. “Take this. Tie it against your skin—”

  “Dude, I don’t know what you think I’m going to—”

  Hunter jerked his head up. “Don’t you want to help?”

  Gabriel stared back at him. He gritted his teeth and didn’t say anything.

  He hadn’t been able to help his parents.

  That thought tightened his throat, and it took him three tries to speak. “They might be dead already.”

  Hunter shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’d feel it.”

  “What? How do you—”

  “Because he’s dead.” Hunter pointed at the fireman on the stretcher. His voice was strong, but his breath shook. “And I feel that.”

  Gabriel stared back at him. His breath was shaking, too.

  “All right. Give me the stupid rock.”

  Getting the gear wasn’t hard. Gabriel slipped through the darkness and grabbed the coat and helmet, pulling into the shadows under the back porch to slide his arms into the sleeves. He’d left the oxygen tanks—it was going to be hard enough to move in this coat. It had to weigh twenty-five pounds. The helmet felt damp with sweat. Gabriel tried not to think about the fact that the last guy to wear this stuff had just died.

  Hunter’s rock was tied to his wrist.

  If you get hurt or need help, I’ll know.

  Cheerful.

  The basement was a walkout, onto a concrete patio. The sliding glass door had been smashed out, but most of the firefighters had retreated to the trucks at the front of the house. He should be able to walk in without anyone noticing, especially with those smoke detectors s
till screeching a warning to anyone smart enough to listen.

  Not him.

  Gabriel wasn’t ready for the darkness. He knew the sounds of a fire; he spoke its language. The pop of contained liquids exploding, the roar of flames, the crackle of a fire making progress. But the basement was a well of pure blackness, a claustrophobic blanket of smoke and nighttime. Stairs would probably be along the wall, right? He strode forward.

  Only to run into a pole. The metal beam came out of nowhere to crack him in the forehead. It almost pushed the helmet clean off his head.

  Now he could see stars.

  He wished he had a flashlight. In the house thirty seconds, and he’d practically given himself a concussion.

  He moved more slowly now, hands outstretched, waving in front of him, ready for obstacles.

  His feet found the next one. He didn’t even know what he fell over, it just cracked into his shins and sent him sprawling. He rolled and whacked his head on something.

  The smoke detectors kept screeching, pounding into his head. The blackness in the basement was absolute.

  Now he had no idea which way to go.

  He crawled.

  It felt like he spent hours looking. He actually found the back door again, glass and splinters rough under his palms. Somewhere near the wall his hands found something he couldn’t identify—something small. Something soft and pliable. Fur?

  Holy crap. A dead cat.

  He gritted his teeth and kept crawling, trying not to think what it’d be like to put his hand down on a dead body.

  The thought almost made him turn back, but he didn’t.

  Finally his hands found a raised surface, then another.

  Up he went.

  Fire everywhere. It welcomed him onto the main level with a streak of flame across the ceiling.

  You’ve come. Come to play.

  No one could be alive in here. He could barely recognize the normal shapes of furniture. Everything was ablaze. Another staircase across the room was so fully consumed that he could no longer see steps. The heat seared his lungs with every breath. Gabriel tried to rein in the fire, to force it to his will, but it fought him.

  The fire was effectively giving him the finger.

  The house was still standing. There was still more to burn. If he pushed hard, the fire would push back.

  Like in the woods, the fire wouldn’t hurt him, but if the whole place came crashing down—well, it would hurt like a bitch. If he stayed alive to hurt at all.

  “Easy,” he said. Maybe he could try this another way. He held his hands out, placating, feeding it a little of his own energy. “Look. We can play.”

  He felt a pause, like the fire was considering it.

  Gabriel fed it a little more, sharing a bit more. “I’ll play, too.”

  At first, he thought it was going to backfire. Flames curled closer, spiraling around his feet.

  But then he realized the fire along the walls had died down. The flames had calmed, except those near his feet.

  He reached down and scooped up a palm full of fire, feeding it energy until it burned like a torch without a base. The fire liked this, tasting his energy, rolling like a cat in the sunshine.

  The thought of the dead cat turned his stomach, and he forced the image out of his mind.

  “Someone else is here,” he said. “Show me where.”

  You. You play.

  Gabriel closed his fist, killing the flame in his palm. “If I play your game, you play mine.”

  The fire hesitated, and Gabriel worried he’d lose what little control he’d gained.

  But then a streak of flame started off across what must have been carpeting, reminding him of those old Looney Tunes cartoons when he was a kid. The kind where there’d be a stick of dynamite with a really long wick, so the flame could race along until boom.

  He probably shouldn’t think about explosions.

  The fire led him toward that destroyed staircase, and he swallowed. If there were people upstairs, he had no idea how he’d get to them.

  But the fire veered left, into a room that had been a kitchen.

  A little kitchen, too. The walls weren’t as badly burned, but the linoleum was warped and cracked from the heat.

  Play.

  “I’m not playing,” he snapped, feeding his anger to the fire. “Where are they?”

  Here. Here. Here. Play!

  Jesus, he was having an argument with fire. Maybe he should have kept the oxygen tanks.

  The line of flame ran straight up the center of the kitchen. No one was here. The sink, the oven, the dishwasher—yeah, that was a hell of a lot of help. A pantry door hung open; smoke billowed out. Unidentifiable boxes of food were on fire.

  Here.

  The fire sounded desperate and excited, like it wanted to please him—it just wasn’t sure how.

  God, he couldn’t think with these wailing smoke detectors.

  Here!

  He gave an aggravated sigh and started throwing open cabinets.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  The fire started another imaginary wick and ran to the back wall of the kitchen again.

  The refrigerator? The door was hanging half off—the seal would have melted in this kind of heat. Gabriel yanked it anyway.

  Nothing.

  The cabinets under the sink.

  Nothing.

  The dishwasher, maybe?

  Nothing.

  The oven. Would someone climb in an oven?

  He checked. No. Not in this house, anyway.

  Another imaginary wick. Fire caught at the pantry door.

  The open pantry. Why would the door be open? From the flames, it looked like the shelves started three feet above the ground. The pantry wasn’t that deep; even with the smoke, he’d be able to see someone under the shelving.

  And they wouldn’t be alive anyway.

  But when he stepped closer, the fire blazed around him, dancing excitedly.

  Gabriel stuck out a hand. He felt the frame of the pantry, the inner walls, spongy and fragile from the damage.

  And on the back wall, his hand found a handle.

  Without thinking, he pulled. The wall seemed to swing forward on a hinge. He couldn’t figure it out. A hidden trash can?

  He stuck a hand into the opening. Metal sides, some kind of vertical tunnel.

  You idiot. A laundry chute.

  The upstairs was completely consumed by fire. This level wasn’t much better. Would someone go down a laundry chute? He could never fit. It would have to be someone tiny.

  He thought of that anguished scream from the front lawn.

  A child.

  Holy shit. He needed to get back to the basement.

  The stairs were on fire now, almost giving way beneath his weight. The basement was still a pit of blackness; he had no idea how he’d find a small kid. Based on the location of the kitchen, he slid away from the stairs, on hands and knees again.

  He found the dead cat again.

  Thank god he hadn’t eaten dinner.

  But here was a door, the knob cool. He threw it wide.

  More darkness. He’d kill for a light.

  And just like that, fire swept down the stairs, slithering around his feet and into the opening, gorging on the fresh oxygen. A laundry room. Fire raced up the bare insulation that lined the walls, tearing into a rack of shirts hanging by the ironing board.

  Raging toward a pile of sheets and towels.

  He almost couldn’t make out the crumpled figure on top of them.

  He dashed through the flames and grabbed hold of what felt like an arm, yanking the body into his arms. Someone small, fragile, all slim legs and knobby joints. Long hair—a girl. He felt satin, like a nightgown. She weighed nothing and hung limply against his chest.

  Was she breathing? He couldn’t tell. It was too hot to tell.

  Fire grabbed the nightgown. He crushed it in his fist. More leapt from the wall to make another attempt.

  He had to get
her out.

  But he had to get low, under the smoke. He clutched her to his chest with one arm and crawled with the other. Once he got out of the laundry room, the fire followed him. Flaming ash began to fall from the ceiling, sparking in his hair and on her face.

  If the ceiling fell in, they were done for.

  The smoke detectors fell silent.

  Gabriel hesitated. He could hear himself breathing. He couldn’t hear her.

  Then a crash shook the house and sent beams slamming into the floor.

  The second level had fallen into the first.

  And now it was going to fall into the basement.

  He ran. Shoulder first, sliding his feet along the floor as fast as he could. He hit walls. Beams. Something cracked against his helmet, but he kept going.

  He could feel flames coming through the floor, looking for him. The sound of wood giving way was deafening. Sparks and ash rained down.

  He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to fail. Again.

  Then a hand closed over his wrist and pulled, hard.

  Gabriel followed—what else could he do?

  He burst into fresh air that felt arctic on his cheeks. That hand kept pulling, dragging him.

  He stumbled and almost fell, but he caught himself before he dropped the girl.

  He felt grass under his feet and slowed.

  Someone was jerking the girl out of his arms. “Is she breathing?”

  Hunter.

  Had Hunter gone into . . . into that to drag him the rest of the way out of the darkness?

  “Gabriel! Damn it, was she breathing inside?”

  Hunter had her on the ground, his cheek over the girl’s mouth.

  “No,” said Gabriel. “No, she wasn’t breathing.”

  Hunter wasn’t even listening. He’d put his mouth over the girl’s and was now blowing into hers.

  “Call the medics!” he yelled between breaths.

  Gabriel ran around the side of the house and waved his arms. “One got out the back! We need a medic over here!”

  He’d never seen people move so fast. EMTs and firemen were just there, swarming the girl, treating her. Gabriel lost track of Hunter.

  He needed to lose track of himself before someone figured out he wasn’t a real fireman.

  Someone caught his sleeves and turned him.