Flameout (23 page)

He took the steps two at a time. I glanced over his shoulder; none of the cloaks had reached the grate just yet, but they were close. The sound of them scrambling over one another to be first to reach us was growing louder and louder.

We reached the top of the stairs and the black ink barrier again. The flames of my pale orb did little to lift the gloom of it, so I recalled the energy.

“You able to stand?” Jackson said.

“I'll fucking run if I have to.”

His grin flashed, but the tension in his arms was echoed around his eyes. “Good. I need a free arm to ensure I don't hit anything in there.”

He caught my hand and tugged me after him. The ink closed in around us, sucking away any sense of light or noise. That it was still here meant it was yet another product of the other witch. If the three whose
ashes were around my neck had been responsible for it, it wouldn't still exist. Spells didn't live past those who created them.

Once again it seemed to take forever to get through the ink. Urgency beat through my brain, and it took everything I had to resist the desire to hurry. If we couldn't see in this stuff, then maybe the cloaks couldn't. Exceptions could be woven into every spell, of course, but they had to be done on an individual basis, and I doubted Luke—or whoever was creating this magic for him—would have the patience or the time to do so for every one of his infected people.

The black wall finally leached away, and true night reasserted itself. The door we'd entered through was both closed and padlocked.

“As if
that'll
stop us.” Jackson wrapped his fingers around the lock and called forth flame. His fingers became molten, but the lock was tungsten steel and took a heartbeat longer to melt.

Behind us, something skidded across the concrete and clanged against a wall. Then a footstep echoed. Just one step, but it seemed a whole lot closer than whatever had hit the wall. Fire flicked through me, but held little heat. I wasn't even strong enough to form a wall right now, let alone burn the cloaks.

“Finally,” Jackson muttered. He pulled the padlock free, though needle-fine strands of melted metal clung to the door, resisting until the very end.

He tossed the lock into the corner then swung the door open. “Let's go.” He grabbed my hand and tugged me out into the lane. “The cloaks have to be—”

He cut the sentence off as his gaze went beyond
me, then cursed and called forth fire again. It exploded across his free hand and surged his arm, crossing his shoulders in an instant and leaping down to our clasped hands. God, it felt so good . . . I shut down the instinct to feed on it and looked over my shoulder. There were shapes evident in the ink; the cloaks were close to breaking through.

He threw his fire at the magic wall, but—like mine—it failed to make any impact. I grabbed control and smeared it across the length of the blackness, creating a fiery barrier.

“Can you hold the force of it while we run?”

It was totally possible my leg wouldn't actually stand up to running, but Jackson couldn't be expected to carry me
and
maintain a wall of fire, and I sure as hell wasn't going to hang about here. Hell, I'd damn well crawl if I had to.

“Let's find out.” His voice was grim but determined.

We ran for the street and the lights. Whether we'd be any safer there given the late hour of the night, I had no idea, but at least we had more options when it came to losing them than we did this one-way lane.

A scream went up behind us, and the smell of burning flesh began to stain the air. Jackson's body twitched and danced, and it almost looked as if some invisible being were assaulting him—and if the cloaks were throwing themselves against his flames, then that was probably what it felt like. He might be well used to controlling regular fire, but the fires of a phoenix were fed from your body
and
your soul.

I glanced over my shoulder as we raced around the corner onto Little Collins Street. The cloaks had
breached Jackson's barrier and were coming after us. Some of them were on fire, some of them were not, but all of them showed about as much emotion as the walls on either side of them.

“Stop feeding your firewall.” The words little more than pants of air. I really
was
reaching my breaking point. “Save it for when they get closer.”

“They are
not
getting any closer.”

With that, he swept me into his arms again without breaking stride or speed, and raced onto Russell Street, heading away from the hotel rather than toward it. We somehow reached Bourke Street before the cloaks got to the Russell and Little Collins street corner, and went left, heading toward the mall but turning right into Swanston Street before we got there. He slowed only once we were on Lonsdale Street.

“The McDonald's up ahead is open twenty-four/seven.” He carefully placed me on my feet, but kept hold of one arm as I struggled to catch my balance. “We'll hold out there until daybreak; it should be safe to go back to the hotel and collect our things then.”

“Food would be good.” It wouldn't help replenish my fire, but it would certainly help improve my physical strength. I pulled my jacket's zip all the way up to hide the interwoven threads of ash around my neck then gave him a quick smile. “Although what the hell they'll think when the two of us enter, all beaten and bloody, is anyone's guess. We could be the first people in the world to be thrown
out
of a McDonald's because of the state of our clothing.”

He snorted and switched my grip to my elbow, lightly supporting me as we walked on. “They won't
think anything. They employ teenagers at these places, and since when have teenagers noticed anything beyond themselves and their phones?”

“They're not likely to have their phones on them when they're working.”

“Want to bet on that?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Winner pays for the meal?”

I laughed. “The business pays for the meal, not us.”

“True.” He glanced over his shoulder and his pace quickened slightly. “I can't hear them, but I think we need to get off the street, just in case.”

“Let's just hope they can't follow the scent of blood.”

Jackson glanced down, his expression concerned. “Why didn't it heal when you shifted shape?”

“Because we're spirits, not werewolves, and it doesn't work that way for us.”

“It really does look bad; maybe we need to get to the hospital so they can stitch you up—”

“No, because I can't risk the blood tests. I'll cauterize it when I get the chance.”
I should have enough energy left to do that, at least.
I squeezed his arm. “It'll be fine, trust me.”

We reached McDonald's. He opened the door and ushered me through. “Is that why your back is so scarred? Because you couldn't risk either controlling the flames or going to the hospital when you rescued the kid from the fire?”

I nodded. “I'm off to find the bathroom. Order me a couple of burgers, some fries, and the biggest damn cup of green tea they have.”

I left him to it and limped away. Thankfully, the
bathroom was empty, so I tugged off my bloody shoe and sock, then undid my makeshift bandage and turned on the cold water. The wound was about eight inches long, running from the left side of my knee around my calf to the opposite ankle. Bone was evident in one section, but, for the most part, it wasn't very deep. I'd been lucky—it could have been a whole lot worse. Like one-leg-missing worse.

I shuddered and washed the wound as best I could. After padding it dry with paper towels, I called forth what little flame I had left and cauterized the wound. I'd still have to be wary of tearing it open again, but at least the bleeding had stopped for now. I stripped off my coat, tore up my remaining shirtsleeve, and wrapped the pieces tightly around the wound. Then I rinsed off my sock and shoe and got dressed again.

Jackson had claimed a corner booth well away from any of the windows. I limped over and slid in beside him. We didn't talk for quite a while, both of us too busy stuffing our faces with burgers and fries.

“I've been thinking,” he finally said. “Maybe we should catch a cab to the office and wait out morning there.”

“That's surely the first place Luke will look.” I hesitated. “But we
could
go next door to the blacksmith's.”

It was not only an option that would give us some degree of safety, but also a means by which I could replenish my flames without risking a call to Rory.

“That was also my thinking,” he said, obviously catching part of my thoughts. He waved a hand at my as-yet-untouched cup of tea. “Want to bring that with you?”

I gave him an indignant look. “I'm not about to leave it behind!”

He laughed, but the sound was filled with tiredness. Creating that firewall had taken more out of him than he was admitting. “Wait here while I go find a cab.”

He rose and strode outside. I picked up my tea and tried to take a sip, but my hands were trembling so much that if it weren't for the lid, the hot liquid would have splashed over my fingers. It was yet another sign of just how close to the edge I still was. The food, it seemed, hadn't done much for me physically.

I took a deep breath and slowly released it, then dug out our spare phone and called Rory. He didn't answer—no surprise given he was on night shift this week—so I left him a message, updating him on everything that had happened. I knew he'd be worried if I didn't.

Jackson appeared five minutes later and beckoned me over. It only took a few minutes to cut across to the old blacksmith's and, once Jackson had paid the driver, we headed into the rear yard. It was a sturdy-looking double-story brick building that had an almost Victorian elegance about it. A double roller door dominated the left side of the building, while there were several bricked-up arched windows on the right. He opened the door, ushered me through, and then locked it behind him. The air was filled with warmth, and I briefly closed my eyes and drew it in. It wasn't fire, but it nevertheless felt good.

Jackson caught my hand and led me forward. Ahead, in the old-fashioned brick furnace, coals glowed,
casting orange shadows across the vast space. To either side of the long room was a mix of tables, cabinets holding all sorts of tools, and metal projects in various states of completion.

As we neared the furnace, he made a motion with his free hand and flames leapt to life. Their heat ran across my senses, and the part of me that was spirit and fire connected with it. The closer we got, the stronger the pull, the more I fed. It was a glorious feeling.

“Refuel, Emberly,” he said as we stopped in front of the fire. “And then we'll rest.”

My gaze jumped to his. “You're not communing with the flames?”

“Hell yeah.” The smile that twisted his lips didn't touch his eyes. “And before you ask, yes, it'll make me hornier than hell, but I
can
assert some control when I want to. We can't risk any sort of distraction right now, however pleasurable and welcome that distraction might be.”

I nodded and returned my gaze to the flames. The fire was a siren song I could not ignore, so I opened my arms and drew in its heat and power. It rushed through my body, through every inch of me, easing the trembling and refilling the well of heat deep within. It was glorious, magic, and, as my skin began to glow, I sighed in utter pleasure then reluctantly pulled free. As Jackson had said, we needed to remain alert.

I crossed my arms and stepped back to allow him full access to the furnace. Given I had no idea how long he'd be, I swung around and started looking for someplace comfortable to wait. In the far corner of the warehouse was a small office with several well-padded
chairs. I dragged one closer to the desk then put my feet up and got comfortable. I was asleep in no time.

I was awoken by the noise of a garbage truck in the street outside. I opened an eye and squinted upward. There was a small window above the desk and a star-filled sky was still evident beyond the grime-crusted glass. I straightened, but that succeeded only in waking all sorts of aches. I winced and groaned as various flares of pain ran down my back and legs. Maybe sleeping in the chair
hadn't
been such a great idea after all.

Jackson, I noted, was similarly positioned in the other chair. I reached across and poked him in the side with a stiffened finger.

“Do that again and I might just bite,” he all but growled.

I couldn't help smiling. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Is it?” He pushed upright and scrubbed a hand across his chin. “Fuck, I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, sleeping this rough isn't something I've done for a while.”

“The sad thing is, this isn't actually rough.” He pushed upright, glancing at his watch as he stretched his arms over his head. “Fuck, it's barely four in the morning. Why the hell are we awake?”

“Because we need to go see Grace.” I rose and twisted from side to side to ease some of the kinks.

His gaze dropped to the ashes around my neck. “How long can you actually hold them?”

“Only twenty-four hours. Keeping them in close contact is helping to keep the heat lingering within them, but if it fades, they'll fall away.”

“Why is it important to keep the heat within them?” He caught my hand and led the way out of the office, heading for the rear door.

“Because their spirits are still entwined within the ashes. If they are not given proper funeral rites before the heat fades, they will not move on, but rather become ghosts.”

“Fuck, why?”

“Because they were killed before their time.” Or, in this particular case, because
I'd
killed them before their time. But gathering the ashes of the dead wasn't something I could do for everyone I killed. It often depended on how they'd lived their lives. Fate was a harsher judge than me when it came to deciding whether or not a person was worthy of moving on.