He burst through the door, ignoring the disgruntled shouts in his wake, tearing off toward his apartment.I’m coming, Mom.
Luce’s fingers closed on empty air and his chest constricted.
“Foster…” he murmured, forlorn.
“Aren’t you going to come with us?” a snide voice demanded, and Luce glanced up at Gabe’s furious expression.
“What?”
“Your son is clearly in the midst of a tragedy, and you’re staring into space with a cocktail in hand.”
Luce glanced down, almost surprised to see the violently pink drink still in his grip. “Oh.”
“You know what?” Gabe sneered. “It’s probably better if you stay here. Seeing you is likely to upset him further.” He spun on his heel and took off after Foster, leaving Luce alone in a booth, staring at his hands.
Foster ran like he had never run before. His feet skimmed the pavement, each long stride interrupted by barely a pause to tap against the concrete and propel him further on. The wind buoyed him as he used just a touch of his magic to weave between the thinning crowds on the sidewalk.
People shifted aside without knowing why, suddenly drawn to a shop window, a vendor on the corner, or a compulsion to cross the street. Foster tore through the gap that opened, making the five-block trip in record time. The acrid smell of smoke and charred wood tickled his nose from two blocks away. His eyes watered, and it wasn’t from the sting of the heat and ash, though that came next as he rounded the corner and saw his building up in flames.
Later, he would kick himself for his reckless stupidity, his blind desperation. As soon as he saw those tendrils of fire climbing quickly up, up, towards the fifth floor, sending columns of billowing black streaming into the early evening sky, all rational thought fled. A choked bellow tore from his throat as he pushed past the frantic tenants huddled on the edge of the street, running headlong into the wall of heat pouring from the gaping hole where the front door once hung.
Immediately, the fire licked at him like a hungry beast. His skin was unharmed, but it caught and sank into his clothing as he raced up the stairs, giving the impression that he himself was made of deadly fire. Foster cursed, shrugging out of his burning jacket and leaving it in a smoldering pile on the third-floor staircase. His t-shirt followed on the fourth, his tank top on the fifth, as the flames continued chasing him up to his landing.
His demigod lungs were powerful, but the creeping smoke still rose, still invaded every crevice and corner it could reach, until even Foster struggled against it. He coughed and swung his arm in an arc, opening a small pocket of air and sealing the bubble around his head like a diver’s helmet. Gulping downa semi-clean breath, he raced to his apartment and grabbed unthinkingly for the knob, searing his palm on the scorching metal.
“Saints and whores!” he cursed, shaking out his stinging hand even as the skin knit and sealed before his eyes. Carefully, he placed his palm against the heated wood and muttered a spell of unlocking before kicking the door inward and rushing into his apartment.
More smoke poured through the heating vent, drifting up to pool at the ceiling in ominous clouds. Foster swore again, bolting down the hall to his bedroom and shoving through without hesitation, the heat pressing on him like a snug blanket. The room was already aflame, and he made a beeline for the bedside table, snatching up the picture there and searing his palms and his chest as he cradled it tightly to his bare skin.
“Fuck!” He dropped the photo and the glass cracked and splintered. “Dammit!”
Snatching up a discarded shirt, Foster wrapped the damaged frame in the fabric and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, warm and secure at the small of his back. A loud crack made his heart skip a beat, only to relax when he saw Cwall in his imp form, hovering frantically in the doorway and coughing.
“Fos,” the demon croaked, and Foster quickly conjured a similar air shield around him. “What the fuck are ya doin’ ya stupid kid?!”
“My mom,” he stated, knowing how stupid and pathetic that made him sound but not having any better answer. “Her photo.”
Cwall softened slightly but kept glowering at him. “Yer anidiotkid. Let’s get the hell out before this place comes down on us.”
“One more thing, in the living room.” Foster ran back to the apartment’s main room, fighting against the waves of heat sweeping in through the door he’d forgotten to close—not like itmattered much. The entire place was going to come down at this rate.
“What’s so important it’s worth riskin’ yourlife?!” Cwall gaped at him.
A soft pulsing light emanated from the seat of the chair he’d abandoned earlier, the protective wards around the Gospel of Lazarus fighting against the encroaching danger.
“The one thing that might save my mom.” Foster snatched up the book and rushed after Cwall into the hallway.
“You Morningstars an yer fuckin’books,” Cwall griped, but there was no real bite to it. He started towards the stairs, only for the ceiling to give a mighty crack as it dropped down in their path.
“Back this way.” Foster tugged on his arm, dragging him back into the apartment. “The fire escape.”
“That thing is a rusting death trap,” Cwall grumbled, but his wings were growing weak from the effort of beating against the thickening air, and he followed Foster’s lead to the bedroom.
The sound of popping sparks and wood splintering chased them down the hallway. The floorboards groaned under Foster’s weight and the warping heat. The grimy carpet began emitting a smell of burning rot, the fumes making even Cwall’s head spin.
Foster laid the book down to claw at the window, cursing the damn thing as it stuck fast under several layers of thick white paint. “Come on,” he pleaded.
Oppressive heat poured down the hall, beads of sweat dripping into his eyes as he pulled and pried the window upwards. There was a sudden rush as the window was yanked from his grip, the abrupt displacement of air throwing him off balance and knocking him halfway over the windowsill.
