it was like entering another world, hot and thick with smoke and ash. My eyes and lungs burned.
Not for long. The boys slipped over my face and mouth, and then my nostrils. Strange sensation. Felt like I was drowning. I tripped on the stairs, panicked, and touched my mouth. I found only smooth skin. Touched my nostrils and found them gone. When I blinked, my eyes felt thicker, heavier; and the world darkened, veiled in silver and pearl.
When I breathed, air filled my lungs. It tasted warm, like sulfur. The boys, breathing for me. They had saved me from drowning before, just like this. They had probably saved my grandmother like this, as well. She had been in Hiroshima when the bomb was dropped. Lost, in the inferno, watching bodies blast into ash.
I did not feel the heat. I reached the second floor in moments and saw flames climbing the walls and ceiling, sweeping across the carpet in waves of light. I ran through the fire, and my clothing burned. My hair burned. I felt it sizzle away as I passed through solid walls of flame.
I watched for breaks in the floor as I raced toward Byron’s room. The smoke was thick, blinding, but the boys were wild and tugged me forward with their own unerring instincts. Below my heart, the darkness stirred—the creature, reaching upward—but I slammed it down, ruthless. I listened for screams, cries for help from the adjoining rooms, and heard none.
I found a dead body in front of Byron’s room.
The man was one of the few things not entirely on fire; in fact, it looked as though he had simply dropped dead from smoke inhalation. I didn’t recognize his face. He was pale, well built, and the remains of his clothing looked like linen, the kind those Seattle Earth Father types liked to wear when they were pretending to be yogis. Parts of it were burning, but slowly, as though something in the material retarded the flames.
He looked peaceful, and that frightened me.
Byron’s door stood ajar. I stepped over the body, pushed it all the way open. All I saw was fire and smoke. If he was here, if he had not been spirited out—
But his bed was empty. On fire and empty. I turned a quick circle, making certain he was gone.
And found someone else entirely.
A woman. She came out of the bathroom, moving through the smoke like a pale ghost, unbothered by the fire. I thought she was naked, but her clothes were merely the same color as her skin and clung to her in wispy waves, like silk. Flames touched her, but nothing burned. She had a very long neck, and around her throat sat an iron collar. Her hair was short and red.
Trouble. I knew that. This was big damn trouble.
I stood my ground, waiting. She did the same. The building was burning down around us, and we had all the time in the world.
Until she moved. And, abruptly, she was no longer a woman, but a man. The transformation was complete, startling, and when I looked closer she—he—was still the same person. Just caught at a different angle.
“You are a Guardian,” she said, tilting her head, just so, becoming a woman again, the firelight hot on her sharp cheekbones. “Warden. Made woman.”
I could not speak. I had no mouth. I stepped closer, and that woman’s gaze dropped, studying my burning clothes, which were falling away to reveal my naked tattooed skin. She looked at my breasts, my stomach, lower and lower, her gaze lingering on the armor covering my right hand. Her eyes fluttered closed. She tilted back her head as though in pleasure, or pain.
“I feel him,” she whispered, swaying.
And she vanished. Gone, into thin air. Gone as though she had never existed. Like magic.
Except it wasn’t magic. I had seen it done before. By Jack, by others. Even I could slide through space using the armor on my hand. But there was a price to that travel, for me. There was always a price.
I heard shouts, distant and tinny. I tore my gaze from where the woman had been standing, thinking of Byron, Jack— I feel him, I feel him —and
Not for long. The boys slipped over my face and mouth, and then my nostrils. Strange sensation. Felt like I was drowning. I tripped on the stairs, panicked, and touched my mouth. I found only smooth skin. Touched my nostrils and found them gone. When I blinked, my eyes felt thicker, heavier; and the world darkened, veiled in silver and pearl.
When I breathed, air filled my lungs. It tasted warm, like sulfur. The boys, breathing for me. They had saved me from drowning before, just like this. They had probably saved my grandmother like this, as well. She had been in Hiroshima when the bomb was dropped. Lost, in the inferno, watching bodies blast into ash.
I did not feel the heat. I reached the second floor in moments and saw flames climbing the walls and ceiling, sweeping across the carpet in waves of light. I ran through the fire, and my clothing burned. My hair burned. I felt it sizzle away as I passed through solid walls of flame.
I watched for breaks in the floor as I raced toward Byron’s room. The smoke was thick, blinding, but the boys were wild and tugged me forward with their own unerring instincts. Below my heart, the darkness stirred—the creature, reaching upward—but I slammed it down, ruthless. I listened for screams, cries for help from the adjoining rooms, and heard none.
I found a dead body in front of Byron’s room.
The man was one of the few things not entirely on fire; in fact, it looked as though he had simply dropped dead from smoke inhalation. I didn’t recognize his face. He was pale, well built, and the remains of his clothing looked like linen, the kind those Seattle Earth Father types liked to wear when they were pretending to be yogis. Parts of it were burning, but slowly, as though something in the material retarded the flames.
He looked peaceful, and that frightened me.
Byron’s door stood ajar. I stepped over the body, pushed it all the way open. All I saw was fire and smoke. If he was here, if he had not been spirited out—
But his bed was empty. On fire and empty. I turned a quick circle, making certain he was gone.
And found someone else entirely.
A woman. She came out of the bathroom, moving through the smoke like a pale ghost, unbothered by the fire. I thought she was naked, but her clothes were merely the same color as her skin and clung to her in wispy waves, like silk. Flames touched her, but nothing burned. She had a very long neck, and around her throat sat an iron collar. Her hair was short and red.
Trouble. I knew that. This was big damn trouble.
I stood my ground, waiting. She did the same. The building was burning down around us, and we had all the time in the world.
Until she moved. And, abruptly, she was no longer a woman, but a man. The transformation was complete, startling, and when I looked closer she—he—was still the same person. Just caught at a different angle.
“You are a Guardian,” she said, tilting her head, just so, becoming a woman again, the firelight hot on her sharp cheekbones. “Warden. Made woman.”
I could not speak. I had no mouth. I stepped closer, and that woman’s gaze dropped, studying my burning clothes, which were falling away to reveal my naked tattooed skin. She looked at my breasts, my stomach, lower and lower, her gaze lingering on the armor covering my right hand. Her eyes fluttered closed. She tilted back her head as though in pleasure, or pain.
“I feel him,” she whispered, swaying.
And she vanished. Gone, into thin air. Gone as though she had never existed. Like magic.
Except it wasn’t magic. I had seen it done before. By Jack, by others. Even I could slide through space using the armor on my hand. But there was a price to that travel, for me. There was always a price.
I heard shouts, distant and tinny. I tore my gaze from where the woman had been standing, thinking of Byron, Jack— I feel him, I feel him —and
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