“The fire extinguisher!” I shout at him. “Under the sink!”
He doesn’t react, so I scramble to my feet. Slate grips my upper arms, and I think he’s about to push me down, but he’s actually helping me stand. His concern and protectiveness is muddying my focus, and I really need to stay alert, so I tear my gaze off his.
Alma peeks at me from behind Bastian’s shoulder and a curtain of strawberry-blonde curls. Slate’s brother can’t begin to imagine how grateful I am for his presence tonight.
“Adrien, the fire extinguisher!” He still doesn’t react to my screeching, so I streak into the kitchen, fling open the cupboard door, and grab the fire extinguisher before spraying the white goop over what’s left of the kitchen curtains. The fireball hits the bookshelves bracketing the chimney and ignites the neat rows of spines before bouncing back into the fire screen and vanishing up the flue.
Crap, crap, crap.
Bastian has his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his nostrils flaring. “Brimstone.”
“What?” Slate splutters as the cloud of smoke fattens and wood splinters.
Bastian levels his gaze on the chimney. “I think that fireball was the precursor to the main event.”
“I really fucking hate this Quatrefoil,” Slate mutters.
“What’s a brimstone?” Alma whisper-asks.
“It’s the biblical term for sulfur,” Bastian explains. “Otherwise known as the smell of Hell.”
Alma wrinkles her nose. “Lovely.”
Smoke puffs from the fireplace, which begins to bloat again, and then the entire wall’s trembling, and flaming books are falling off shelves.
“Bastian, get Alma out of here!” Slate roars. “And both of you stay out!”
“But—”
“Now!” Then he turns, hunting me down with his dark eyes. “Cadence, you too.”
The portrait of Camille crashes to the floor, its wooden frame hitting the back of the brown suede couch. On his way to the front door, Bastian rips a folded woolen blanket from an armchair and tosses it over the blaze, effectively smothering it, but it seems so inconsequential considering the devastation.
To think that if Bastian’s right, this is only the beginning.
As the front door claps shut behind our friends, Slate hollers at Adrien.
Adrien who’s standing there like a lost child on a battlefield.
“What’s the plan, Mercier?”
The house rumbles and then the stones lining the fireplace fly outward, crashing into the beige plaster ceiling and wainscoted walls. I cover my head, the hail of debris spraying us hard and fast, but the ensuing inhuman roar drags my arms right down.
Slate nods toward the scaled green beast breathing fire through saucer-sized nostrils. “I’m guessingthat’syour piece, Prof. A big-ass ugly snake with wings.”
“Aguivre,” I breathe. We learned all about this kind of dragon inBrumian Myths and Legendslast semester.
That startles Adrien out of his stupor. “Not just anyguivre. A demonicguivre. It breathes hellfire.”
Slate snorts. “Right. ’Cuz normal fire is for pussies.”
Adrien’s eyes are huge and shiny like marbles as he glances around the kitchen. “Salt. I need salt!”
“Planning on seasoning it, Prof?”
He finds the plastic grinder I left on the edge of the countertop, grabs it, and unscrews the lid, then shakes pink flakes into his palm and stuffs them inside his pockets before going for a second fistful. Finally, he upends the grinder’s contents into his pockets.
The creature turns its head toward us, twin streams of steel smoke pulsing out of its nostrils, blurring the edges of its equine face and curled horns. I tighten my grip on the extinguisher, directing its nozzle toward the beast that hovers over the rubble, slitted eyes sunk on Adrien.
