Dandelion Fire by N. D. Wilson Page B

flame when he touched it. Yelping, he staggered into the living room and slapped it out on his belly.
    Darius took another step.
    “Dotty,” Frank said. “Leave now. Zeke, go with them.”
    Zeke didn't budge. Darius lifted the point of his blade to his face and scraped it through his sideburn. Then suddenly, the blade whistled down and sunk deep into the stair between the big man's feet.
    Darius spoke, low guttural churnings that sharpened in his throat. They hung from his mouth like creatures, and then exploded through the house.
    Someone crashed to the floor in the kitchen, and Anastasia screamed long and hard. Zeke ran toward the noise. Frank didn't move.
    Darius licked blood from a fresh split on his lower lip. “Death words will gnaw each,” he said, “till you speak me truth.”
    Sergeant Kenneth Simmons pulled onto the grass in front of the Willis house. Henry, Kansas, was too small to have its own police force, and his had been the closest of the sheriff's patrol cars.
    Plus, he knew Frank Willis.
    Dispatch had told him that Frank had been seen firing a rifle at a second-story window in his own house while yelling his wife's name.
    Sergeant Simmons was fairly certain that therewould not be a reasonable explanation. This was Frank Willis, after all. But there would be an explanation of some kind. Something that would only make sense to Frank. And he had no idea what that explanation might be. Though he did hope it would be good enough to get Frank off with a warning.
    He reported his arrival to dispatch, picked his hat up off the passenger seat, stepped out of his car, and screwed the hat onto his head. Unsnapping his holster, he began to walk toward the front door. He was stiff, and his legs moved slowly.
    He was glad to see the shotgun lying in the grass. At least that wouldn't be a factor. There could be other guns, but he didn't really think there would be. And Frank was thin. Even if Frank tried to get tough, it wouldn't go anywhere.
    Sergeant Simmons was not fat. But he was thick. Thick from his ankles to his earlobes. Always had been. But even with all his bulk, he'd never been able to swing a bat like Frank had. He'd crushed the ball occasionally, but Frank could give it wings.
    Wrestling had been his thing. Wrestling and football.
    He stepped onto the porch, smiled at the gray and white cat, which ran off, and looked in the screen door. He couldn't see anyone. Not a lot of noise, either.
    He rapped on the door frame. “Frank?” he yelled. “It's Ken Simmons. I've got my badge on. We heard you were taking some target practice in the yard. Just needed to check in.”
    Putting one hand on the butt of his gun, he reached for the door latch.
    He pulled it off.
    Surprised, he looked down in time to watch ash tumble onto the toes of his boots. Most of the wooden frame was fine, besides needing paint, but a hole the size of his fist had replaced the latch.
    There wasn't time to think about it. He dropped the cold metal, slid his hand into the hole, and pulled the door open.
    Inside, on the doormat, a gray, horned animal was mostly hidden beneath feathers, shivering in the breeze.
    There was a bigger body in the living room.
    Sergeant Simmons pulled his gun.
    Stepping inside, he swallowed hard, pinched the radio on his shoulder, and requested backup.
    Frank was lying on his back in the center of the living room. One arm was draped over his face. Wisps of smoke twisted up off his clothes. His hair was white, curled, and singed in the front.
    Beyond Frank, a boy was seated against the living room wall beside the couch. His eyes were open, but his mouth was shut. His body was motionless.
    “Zeke Johnson?” Simmons asked quietly. “What's going on here?”
    Zeke blinked, but said nothing, and moved nothing.
    “Are you the constabulary?” Darius asked.
    Sergeant Simmons wheeled and found his gun pointing at a man, halfway down the stairs, wearing awhite puffy-sleeved shirt, enormous boots, and the biggest