Book of Souls by James Oswald Page A

too exhausted to move, his mind too confused by the lack of oxygen. All he could do was stare at the tiny flames eating away at the cotton. And beyond them, just out of focus, the door to his own apartment. His whole life. He needed to get in there, to save those few things he might be able to carry out. Those last reminders of the life that had been stolen from him.
    Something exploded down below. The noise cut through the fog in his mind, and McLean woke enough to realise what had been happening. He slapped at the flames on Mr Sheen’s pyjamas, then staggered to his feet, dragging the old man up with him. Leaning heavily against the stone wall, he inched his way carefully down the stairs to the next landing. The door to the student flat was ablaze, flames licking atthe underside of the stone landing he’d been lying on just moments earlier. Through the fanlight over the other door, he could see that the merchant banker’s flat was going strong now. His own place upstairs would catch soon.
    The heat boiling out of the student flat was almost unbearable, but he had to pass close to the blazing door to get to the stairs. Gritting his teeth against it, he hurried past, shielding the unconscious form from the worst of it and praying his coat wouldn’t catch. Once past, he could feel the wind on his face as the blaze sucked air in through the open front door and up the stone stairwell. It was a welcome relief and gave him the strength to stagger down the last flights, dragging Mr Sheen along with him.
    The wail of sirens echoed off the other tenements as McLean collapsed onto the pavement across the road. He gulped down sweet, cold Edinburgh air, too shell-shocked to pay attention to the still form beside him. All about the street, lights were flicking on like will-o’-the-wisps from a nursery rhyme. Tiny faerie faces stared from windows. A fire engine screeched round the corner before coming to a halt. It had scarcely disgorged its crew of yellow men before another joined it. McLean struggled to his feet and headed back across the road as a familiar figure came running up. Jim Burrows, the fire investigator, obviously didn’t recognise him.
    ‘Is anyone else in there?’
    ‘Ground floor.’ McLean pointed at the nearest bay window. ‘Old Mrs McCutcheon. Lives alone. Watch out for the cats.’
    ‘Bloody hell! Are you all right, sir?’
    McLean looked around to see two uniformed officers approaching at speed. He was pleased to see that one of them was Sergeant Houseman, but before he could say anything more, a deafening explosion slammed through the night. Glass and bits of window frame rained down on them, tinkling on the roofs of the parked cars. Then something heavier landed at McLean’s feet, charred and blackened but giving off that oddly sweet smell as it smoked.
    ‘Secure the street, Andy. And get as many bodies here as possible. We’re going to have to evacuate everyone in the next two tenements. And round the back, too.’ He bent down and prodded the lump of smoking material, noticing as he did that his hand was blackened with soot. Sometime soon, he was going to go into shock; maybe he already had.
    ‘How’s Mr Sheen?’
    ‘Who?’ Houseman asked.
    ‘My neighbour.’ McLean picked up the lump of material, brushing off the charred mess on the outside. It was cool and unburnt beneath a thin layer. He crumbled it in his fingers as he turned back towards the far pavement where he had left the old man, a horrible thought beginning to form in his mind.
    A group of people had gathered on the pavement, and a couple of paramedics were hunched down beside the prone figure. Big Andy followed McLean over, moving the gawpers aside to give them some room, but McLean could tell that it was no use. The paramedics weren’t fighting to save Mr Sheen’s life and their slumped shoulders gave everything away.
    ‘He’s dead, isn’t he.’ McLean hunkered down beside the nearest paramedic, still rubbing the charred lump