I paused to get my bearings and looked around, horror crawling through my mind. Orange flames clawed at the night sky, reaching out and engulfing everything unlucky enough to be in their path. The cabin wasn’t on fire.
The forest was.
Everywhere I looked was burning or choked by black curling fists. I couldn’t see the Miller’s house or the Toronto’s place. All I could see was darkness; broiling, angry smoke; and spitting, flaming death.
The smoke seared my eyes and lungs. I heaved, coughing violently, trying to rid the soot that settled like glue on the inside of my mouth, throat, and stomach. I gasped in air, desperate to draw enough oxygen to fill my chest. Overcome with dizziness, I dropped to my hands and knees and scrambled across the gravel toward the safety of the lake. Pebbles scraped my skin, but at least I was lower to the ground, and the smoke was less dense.
Burning embers hit my arms, legs, and torso. They hurt like a bitch, but I gritted my teeth and kept crawling. I’d made it several more feet when I realized I wasn’t wearing my mother’s ring—it was still on the bedside table. I turned back to my cabin; the fire had already begun its devastation against the wood.
I had two choices: continue to the lake, or retrieve the only thing I had left of my mother, to remind me I was loved. I knew I should keep heading for the lake, the smoke could kill me, and the fire was traveling at startling speed. But the ring—I couldn’t leave it.
I sucked in a deep breath. That was a mistake, and it sent my body into a fit of coughing as I staggered to my feet. I ran—choking, thunder screaming through my ears, eyes streaming—toward the cabin.
The blazing wind was horrendous. It tore at my skin as embers sizzled in my hair and stung my face. I tilted my head to the gravel, brought up a hand to try and protect my eyes, and held my breath as I ran. It seemed to take forever, but it was probably only seconds until I reached the porch. The cabin broke the wind at least, but the heat was nearly unbearable.
Bang, bang, bang.
Timber exploded, the sound rupturing through the flames, sharp as grenades. I entered the burning cabin, and it was like walking into a dragon’s fiery breath. The smoke was thick and black, and scorching hot. Sweat rolled down my face, and my lungs cried out for air.
I stumbled in the direction of the bedroom.
The smoke burned my eyes, rivulets running silently down my cheeks. Instinctively I squeezed them shut. Darkness, pitch-black darkness. I opened them again to a hellscape of orange daggers roaring from the mouth of a dragon. From the layers of darkness and flame, the bedroom door appeared. I slowed, staggering into the smoke-filled room. The bed whacked my thigh. Fighting against the urge to cry out and draw a breath, I trailed around the end with my hands until I reached the bedside table. My fingers fumbled against its wooden top, lungs screaming for air, until finally I grasped the ring.
My head spun wildly. My chest felt like it wanted to explode. I didn’t want to, but I had to take a ravaged breath.
The smoke that filled my lungs choked me. I coughed and coughed. The floor wobbled, the room seemed to crash in all around me, and I dropped to my knees. A wave of sickness roiledthrough my stomach. I was overcome by dizziness, and my eyes burned like the fire itself seared my retinas.
Clutching the ring tightly in one hand, coughing and heaving, I crawled frantically toward the front door. The world tilted underneath me, and I hovered between light and dark, perched on the cusp of passing out. I collapsed to the ground. The heat seemed to cut right through my skin, through my muscles, to the marrow of my bones; it felt like I was being baked alive.
“Move, Amy, move!”The voice came from a place outside myself and sounded so much like my mother.
Fighting the blur, fighting the dizziness, I clawed at the wooden floors and dragged myself forward. Just as I thought I could go no further, I felt the sides of the door frame. I gritted my teeth and heaved myself through. I crawled down the stairs, toward the safety of the lake. My mind reeled, and I couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe—as a drowsy haze rolled over my body. I wanted to close my eyes and sleep. I tucked the ring to my chest, the symbol of love I so desperately needed, and closed my eyes. Blackness caved in around the edges of my mind.
“I’m sorry mom,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
Something sharp thumped down on my left leg. Searing pain ripped through it, jolting me back. I howled. The putrid smell of my own burning flesh entered my nostrils. I reached back with my left hand, clutching a burning branch, and hot coals shot agony up my fingers. With a ragged cry, I flung the source of the pain away.
The world faded. The sounds of the fire dimmed. I fought hard, clawing along the graveled earth toward the lake, but the blackness won.
Chapter 25
Katrina and Robert Tolle
Katrina threw a sharp glance at the two large security guards who stood protectively by the doors. She didn’t knock as she barged into Jefferson’s office, and Robert scurried in behind her.
Jefferson was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, speaking on the phone. He held up a hand, indicating for them to wait.
Arrogant prick. Katrina bristled.
He was a fit man, with a dark, full head of hair he kept short and neat, and a tanned complexion. He was good-looking, and excessively wealthy, his parents had left him a hefty inheritance when they passed. Plus, he’d made a few smart investments in real estate, adding to his wealth portfolio. As a result, he usually had much younger women hanging off his arm.
Katrina looked around while she waited. The side wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with expensive hardcover books, including an old encyclopedia set in mint condition. A large leafy potted plant was nestled in the corner by a room-width window that led out to a balcony. The darkness glared in and reflectedtheir images on the windowpane, haunting as poltergeists emerging in the night.
Cole, the pompous little prick, sat on the other side of the room in a black leather chair, legs crossed, whiskey in hand.
Jefferson finally put down the phone. “Katrina, Robert,” he said, tone casual. “We thought we might be seeing you. Please sit.” He indicated with his hand to a chair.
Katrina had no intention of making herself comfortable. “If you think for onemomentthat I’m going to let you and your little friend develop those lands, you can think again.”
