I can’t weave a spell because that would mean breathing and burning my lungs to a crisp. So I release an answering groan of my own and call to the life under me.
The concrete foundation moans in response, fissures popping open in the wood floor. My chest aches with the effort of tugging the life closer, my skin beginning to blister as my energy fades and the air I cooled heats again. An avalanche of thoughts tumbles through my head. I consider running, consider my own demise, consider how little my existence has meant to this world, and how little my death will change anything. It’s always this way when the next world calls. But something powerful is swirling deep in my gut, and even as I realize that stopping this is likely a lost cause and I need to run, I can’t make my feet move. I can’t manage to work up the will to leave the girl’s side.
It’s a shock to my system, wholly unfamiliar. And it sends a renewed surge of my energy through the air. The pain in my skin blinks out for a flash as the air cools a little.
The floor bursts open. A thick tree root surges up, reaching for my foot, sprouting several saplings as it slides up my leg. I grab hold of it like a lifeline, my body weakening. And before the darkness can claim me, I focus everything I have left on the root, on tugging out the thin threads of life in a steady stream, collecting the energy into my skin as quickly as I can, pleading with it to coat me. Then I push out every ounce I have, every spark I can manage, praying it’ll be enough to douse the flames, praying it’s not already too late.
But before I can be sure we’re all safe, blackness replaces the glow of the hungry flames, and I fall.
TEN
SAGE
Who turned up the heat? It’s so warm. Like, really warm.
A vague memory of fire and the smell of rosewater drift away as I become more aware of my surroundings. Sweat pearls on my temples. My lungs ache like they’ve been singed from the inside. As I open my eyes, they sting like mad, my vision blurring. What’s with all the fog in the room?
No, not fog. Smoke.
My nerves spark, and I sit up in a rush, every muscle in my body screaming. I feel like I raced an Ironman or something. What the hell?
A cough rips from my chest, raspy and thick with phlegm. And then another. I wipe the tears from my eyes and wave a hand in front of my face to attempt to move the smoke. But when my surroundings become a little clearer, the heat against my skin dulls.
And icy threads of fear weave through me.
Everything around me is black, burned, charred into rubble. The bed I’m sitting on is only coal and sticks now, the ceiling above my head full of smoldering holes. And the cushy chair near the window is glowing embers, the shelves of books framing it . . . the books are all completely destroyed.
What the hell happened?
I was dreaming of fire, wasn’t I? No. It was . . . I don’t remember. And I’m . . . I’m naked?
My God, did I do this? Panic fills me; new tears spring to my eyes. I scrape them from my cheeks, though, anger instantly following the panic and confusion. Anger at myself, at my situation. At my helplessness. How did this suddenly become my life?
Then I see a form on the floor.
The fear surges again, and I scramble to the body. I’m scared to touch it. The clothes are burned away in places, revealing blisters. The face is hidden, covered by a protective hand, the skin red and disfigured there too. The arms . . . are coated in markings.
Faelan!
Don’t be dead, oh, God, don’t be dead. But I can’t say the words; I can’t breathe.
I don’t think I should touch him. I don’t know what to do.
“What happened?” says a strangely calm voice from the doorway. I register that it’s a female, that it’s young. But I don’t look up. I can’t look away from Faelan’s still-smoking body.
A second voice whispers, “Goddess below.”
“Help,” I choke out. I have to do something! What have I done?
Something moves in my peripheral vision, and the first girl kneels beside me, wrapping a towel around my body. I think I’m hallucinating. She’s glowing. “Go get some of the vine near the door, Niamh,” she says to the other girl. Is this person an angel? Her cascading hair seems to have its own light, and her teal eyes and earthy skin emanate some sort of energy. But do angels usually wear bathing suits? Then she says, “Oh, Faelan, you silly asshole.”
Okay, I’m thinking she’s not an angel.
She places a hand on the twisted skin on his arm, closes her eyes, and whispers something rhythmic and soft, like a song in another language.
The air stirs, raising the hairs on the back of my neck, and her glow slinks over his arm where she’s touching him.
The other girl comes back in and tosses a bunch of leaves down. A vine. The glowing girl begins wrapping it around Faelan’s arm and his torso, still whispering the same strange words.
I watch in confusion as the emerald leaves turn yellow, then copper, then wilt completely, curling in on themselves.
“It’s not much, he might need more,” the glowing girl says to the other, who runs back out.
A moan comes from Faelan, and I gasp in relief. He’s not dead. “Oh, God, thank God.”
“My name’s Aelia,” the glowing girl says. When I glance up at her in confusion, she’s smirking at me. “Not God.”
I don’t know how to respond so I focus on Faelan again. “We need to call an ambulance. His burns—”
“He’ll be fine,” Aelia says in a tired voice. “We need to move him to his nest.”
“What? He needs a doctor!” His skin is still blistered and singed, his breathing labored.
Aelia just laughs and turns to the girl, Niamh, who’s come in with more vines. “Can you text the others and tell them we’ll need to add one more to the list for tonight? We have some introductions to make, I think. And go find James—he’s still asleep in my room.”
She’s obviously not listening to me. Is she nuts?
I tuck the towel tighter around my torso and reach down, trying to turn Faelan over to get a better look at his face.
“Uh,” Aelia says, “you may not want to do that.”
And just as she’s warning me, Faelan’s eyes fly open. His fingers reach out and grip me by the throat, a guttural noise coming from his chest as he flips me onto my back, climbing over me. All in half a second.
“See,” I hear Aelia say through my pulse thundering through my head, “he hates being woken up.”
I blink and gag, tugging at his arm, trying to squirm to get him off me, but his grip is ironclad around my neck, his weight pressing down on me.
Aelia slides a finger over his cheek, saying in a seductive voice, “Hey, Faelan. Don’t kill the newblood.”