Vaelor
The pan clatters against the stovetop louder than I meant it to.
“If you wake her up, I’m blaming you,” Beckett mutters from the doorway.
“Pretty sure she sleeps like the dead.” I pull open the fridge, scanning the shelves. Cheese. Bread. Some leftover chicken from yesterday. “Besides, no one’s sleeping tonight anyway.”
He doesn’t argue. None of them would.
The kitchen has that strange energy of too many people awake when they shouldn’t be. Rane’s sitting at the table, turning an empty glass between his hands. Locke hasn’t moved from his spot near the back door, arms crossed, watching nothing. Kyron’s pacing the length of the counter—three steps, turn, three steps, turn—which he never does. Trey’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, still carrying the guilt he won’t let anyone talk him out of.
So I do what I always do. I feed them.
The butter is on the counter over by the living room doorway. I cross to grab it, already thinking about whether we have enough bread for everyone, when I smell it.
Faint. Acrid. Wrong.
I stop moving.
“Do you guys smell smoke?”
Rane snorts without looking up. “Did you burn something again?”
“No.” I set down the butter. Sniff again. Stronger now. Not kitchen smoke, not burnt food. Something chemical. Something wrong. “Seriously. Something’s burning.”
Trey pushes off the wall, crosses to stand beside me. His nostrils flare.
“Fuck.” The color drains from his face. “That’s not the stove.”
We look at each other for half a second.
Then I’m running.
The stairs vanish under my feet two at a time. The smell thickens with every step, coating my throat, stinging my eyes. By the time I hit the hallway, I can see it—smoke, gray and curling, seeping out from under Nova’s door.
“Nova!” I’m shouting before I reach it. No response. “Nova!”
The door handle. I yank my shirt over my head, wrap it around my hand. The metal is hot even through the fabric—too hot. I twist, shove, and the door flies open.
The room is on fire.
Flames climbing the curtains, eating the fabric in bright orange tongues. The rug smoldering, edges curling black. Broken glass scattered across the floor near the window, something charred and still smoking in the center of the shards. And in the middle of it all—
Nova.
In bed. Eyes closed. Not moving.
The flames are three feet from her mattress and she hasn’t moved.
No no no no—
Trey’s behind me. I feel him surge forward and throw my arm out to stop him.
“I’ve got her.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Stay here. I might need to hand her off.”
He stops. His face is white, but he nods.
I go in.
