I have to go back.
It was too late to turn around, but he couldn’t get through. He was going to drop and be burned to ashes. He gritted his teeth as his lips peeled away like red ribbons.
He stumbled, his hand shooting out to stop himself from falling, and the flames ripped at it, sinking through the flesh down to the muscles. There was no pain now, his nerves burned, his body fading.
“Run, son. You have to run,”his mother’s voice whispered inside his head.
They were the last trembling words she’d spoken to him. He was only seven years old. She’d pressed a kiss on his forehead, told him she loved him, and urged him to run.
Run.
Terrified, he’d fled. His mother turned to face the witches hunting them down. She’d burnt to death.
Hatred for witches ripped through him, sending a flare of adrenaline through his body, giving him the strength he needed.
Karson burst from the flames.
His arms, head, and ears raged with agony. He glanced at his arms—the skin was gone. His raw flesh was a molten mixture of weeping pus and charred decay. His skin began to do what it had done so many times before, a thick layer weaving over the burned and weeping flesh like a spider’s web as it began to heal itself.
Wheezing air into his charred lungs, he staggered behind the massive trunk of a thousand-year-old tree, sheltering from the flames and the wind. He held his breath, stood perfectly still, and listened. He blocked out the freight-train roar of the wind, the sound of the flames snapping and exploding like grenades as trees met their demise, and the fluttering wings of birds trying to escape. Thunder rumbled in the sky. Then from out of the mottled darkness, came her anguished cry. He’d caused enough screams to know it was one of pain.
“Amelia,” he tried to shout but it came out weak and rasping. Karson broke into a sprint.
His stomach dropped in a sickening rush when he saw her.
She was lying on the ground, her painfully frail body motionless and covered in soot. Charred holes dotted her black silk pajamas, and she had a burn on the back of her leg. He sucked in a relieved breath when he saw she was breathing, though it was ragged and thin.
“Amelia,” he whispered, scooping her up into his arms, pressing her warmth to his chest. A bolt went through him like a charge of electricity so strong he gasped. Dazed, he blinked. Her ring fell from her hand and landed with a clink on the ground, breaking his stupor. He leaned over and collected it, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.
Rain began to tumble down in thick, fat drops. He hoped it continued, or they’d never stop the fire.
Karson ran as fast as he could through the shallow edge of the lake, the ground was charred, burning ruins. Orange slithered through the crumbled remains of the Miller’s and Toronto’s cabins. He hoped the children weren’t home, or they got out quickly, the fire appeared to have started somewhere close to the road leading out and once it took hold, a human would never make it through.
When he finally cleared the devastation, he headed in the direction of the main road.
A few minutes later, he placed her down gently. Her hair clung to the sides of her cheeks, and her face was smudged black with soot. Her lips were parted; her breathing was rasping but regular at least. Still, she looked so helpless and so delicate. Something fierce and altogether overwhelming found a place in his heart: a ridiculous rush of desire to protect this girl.
Karson stared at her, confused.What was wrong with him?Feelings and emotions were for the weak. And he was anything but weak.
Karson assigned the feelings not to anything worth consideration, but to a brief moment of empathy. A crack in his armor. It was unusual for him. But normal, given the circumstances, he supposed.
He shoved the thoughts aside and looked around. He saw the flashing lights of an ambulance coming from ahead and flagged it down.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him, bewildered and dazed.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re safe now,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair off her cheek.
He nestled his hands on either side of her head, then implanted visions of her running through the forest and making it to the side of the road on her own.
She moaned.
Her image, the beacon.
Her voice, the song.
The crack in his armor was larger than he realized, because his lips landed on her warm, damp forehead.
A shiver, not entirely unpleasant, traveled down his spine.
