Playing with Fire by Tamara Morgan Page A

shot. She was still so full of fury at Patrick and all the stupid men who did his bidding. She did, however, question her ability to keep going for the complete two mile stretch. She’d never tried using her powers for such a sustained length of time. Anything could happen. A meltdown. Loss of power. Hell, it might even kill her.
    And that was okay…as long as it didn’t end up killing Ian, too.
    She found an old metal garbage can that looked like it had roasted a few tins of Van Camps in its day, and fired. There wasn’t much in there to burn, but it served its purpose, especially when she kicked the can over and let it roll into the street, a burning bush of an altogether different composition. At the sight of it, one of the homeless men approached, his hands outstretched.
    “You need some help, darling?” he asked.
    Fiona’s heart sank. This was going to be harder than she thought.
    “Thanks. I’m okay,” she said softly. “But can I offer you a tip?”
    His look was puzzled, but at least he listened.
    “Get your friends and get away from the center of town. Head for the river, preferably. Things are about to get pretty ugly.”
    “You see things, girl?” he asked, innocent enquiry in his eyes.
    “Worse,” Fiona admitted. “I do things.”
    She heard the not-so-subtle cough of one of the gunmen in the wings and moved on, hoping the homeless man would take her advice. No deaths, no casualties, no injuries . If she could accomplish that much, she would be okay. All the stuff with the police could be handled later. Surely they had a contingency for crimes perpetrated under extreme duress?
    From the darkness of the sidewalk, she got off a few shots—a window frame here, an empty box there. The feeble starting flames weren’t enough to illuminate the darkened street, and she ran through the shadows, a silent arsonist. She didn’t feel any physical pain other than a growing stitch in her side, but still her breath came fast and sharp. Her anguish was of a different kind.
    “You’re gonna have to do better than that,” one of the gunmen called, his voice gruff and distant. But not distant enough. “Shoot inside the buildings.”
    She fought the urge to shoot him in the head instead.
    “I’m trying,” she said, her teeth clenched so tight the words were more of a blur than a statement. She didn’t want to hit the buildings. That’s where the people were.
    The sound of a gunshot and a whir of air above her head got her going again. She shot faster, more randomly, looking for easily flammable targets that didn’t require her to stop in the streets. As long as she could stay to the alleyways, keep running, she might be able to do this.
    But by the time she’d gone only a few blocks, the first person ran into the street, and it no longer mattered what she did.
    Fire and panic spread fast.
    Her instructions were to keep going, but it became difficult once people joined the rush to the streets. The first building she’d hit finally caught fire with a roar, and shouts about terrorism and the apocalypse filled the air. Each person’s cry pushed her that much closer to the edge, that much closer to running away.
    This was wrong. It was wrong to endanger all these innocent lives to save her own skin.
    But survival, the instinct that had saved her so many times before, was strong. She shot at scaffolding, hanging high and empty, next. It caught almost instantaneously, lighting up the whole street.
    Fiona’s first thought was to evade a woman running out of a school administration building. She clutched a young child to her chest, and their combined wails filled the air. Fiona’s second thought was that she couldn’t take one more step. Exhausted, shaking, her vision blurred with hot, stinging tears, she fell to the ground.
    Another shot rang out, and Fiona thought for a moment that it was all over. But she twisted her head and realized it wasn’t a gun. A car had crashed about half a block away, wrapped