“It’s cold,”she said.“Hard to see.”
Not ghost fire, then. And I saw no sign of djinn. That left eldritch fire: a caricature of life trapped within the flames, knowing only hunger and madness.
Water from the fire hose slammed the house hard enough the windows would have shattered if not for their magic. The fire hissed and spattered and spat sparks twenty feet in all directions, but refused to die. The firefighters were shouting about accelerants and calling for chemical sprays to smother the flames.
Those wouldn’t work either.
I started walking.
Ronnie held me back. “What are you doing?”
“I need to end this.”
“Let them do their job.”
“They can’t. If they’re not careful, the fire will kill them, too.” I fumbled with the zipper to my fanny pack and grabbedStuart Little.
The glass in one of the porch lights popped and shattered. The fire was breaching the outer wall, slithering between the bricks.
The house called out. Not just the house, but the land and the creatures in and around it. I was supposed to protect them. That was the deal, the price for the power and strength they gave me. I was failing them.
I opened the book to the banishing spell I needed. The Sanskrit symbols were simple enough, but I stared at the instructions in despair. “I have to get closer.”
Ronnie looked from me to the house and back. “How close?”
“The porch would be ideal.”
He stared at me. “The porch that’s on fire?”
“That’s the one. There’s a logarithmic relationship between the distance and the impact of this class of spell. You’d be surprised how much math you need to know to do magic. The closer I get, the better my chances of putting this out before it spreads.”
The heat cracked a windowpane.
One of the firefighters spotted me. “Hey, kid, keep your grandpa back!” he yelled at Ronnie.
A lifetime ago, I would have erased myself from his thoughts and walked right past. Concentration was easier in those days. Trying to focus with so much chaos whirling around us was like building a house of cards in a hurricane.
“This is crazy, but all right.” Ronnie cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders. From inside his trench coat he produced an eighteen-inch brass pipe with a small bowl on one end.
“Are you taking a smoke break?” I asked.
“It’s a kiseru, a Japanese battle pipe.” He sounded excited, like a kid on Christmas getting ready to play with a new toy. “This one was enchanted to confuse and disorient your enemy. It’s been in the Kensington family for a hundred and seventy years. I’ll hold them back long enough for you to do what you have to do.”
“Donotlet him start beating up firefighters,”said Margaret.
I relayed the message. Ronnie huffed and turned to face the van. “I’m not going to kill anyone. Would you rather we let the place burn down?”
It was a kind thought, if misguided. Margaret’s son was a good boy, deep down. Just confused and angry and too eager to punch and stab and pummel his problems away.
My house whimpered like a wounded pet looking to its master, asking me to make the pain stop and confused when I couldn’t.
Icouldn’t. Other things could.
“I have an idea.” I double-checked the book, making sure I’d memorized the layout of the spell. Then I closed my eyes and opened my awareness.
Pain and panic and confusion knocked me to my knees.
“What’s happening?” asked Ronnie. “First a stroke, now a heart attack?”
