Fury's Fire (15 page)

“Thank you,” Gretchen said again, more awkwardly this time. Gretchen felt guilty for adding to Mrs. Archer’s worry.

A firefighter knocked at the door, and Will pulled it open.

“We’re about done,” the firefighter announced.
“There’s an insurance adjuster at your house,” he added to Johnny.

“Got here pretty fast,” Mr. Archer noted, and Johnny nodded.

“I’ll go talk to him.”

Gretchen started up, but her father waved her back to her seat. “I’ll take care of it. You stay here.”

Once Johnny left, Mr. and Mrs. Archer hovered around for a while. Mrs. Archer kept trying to stuff Gretchen with muffins; Mr. Archer just sat still as a bone in his chair. Finally he had to get started on his work, and Evelyn had to head back to bed. Gretchen was left alone with Will.

A long silence coursed through the room as Will sat pressed into the far corner of the couch. Bananas reappeared and leaped onto Gretchen’s lap. Gretchen stroked her ears, and the cat settled down happily.

“Tell me about that fire on the bay,” Gretchen said.

Will studied his hands. “There was a fuel spill. The gas ignited.”

“How did it ignite?”

Will looked at her sharply. “Don’t.”

“Quit lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Not telling me is the same as lying!” Gretchen turned, and Bananas rolled over ridiculously, asking for a belly rub, oblivious to the tension in the room. “I already know the answer, so just say it.”

Will looked at her for a long time, the expression in his denim-blue eyes flat. He picked at a loose thread
in the fabric on the arm of the couch. Finally he seemed to reach a decision. “I don’t know what happened that night.”

Gretchen stood up, dumping Bananas onto the floor. “You need to stop protecting me, Will, and start helping me.”

She walked right out the front door and didn’t look back.

Gretchen fought a sense of vertigo as she walked down the school hallway. The movement and chatter around her set her on edge, and she felt like a lost salmon, swimming the wrong way, as she slogged to her locker.

Sunday had passed in a fog. Her room was ruined. Everything smelled of smoke or was damp and covered in fire extinguisher foam. The fire had started near her bed (of course it had) and lit up her linens in a sudden conflagration, but it hadn’t spread that much. Still, not much was salvageable, and Gretchen found herself grieving for her lost things—her sketchpad, her quilt, even her fuzzy slippers and ancient pillow. Her father had taken her to the outlet mall half an hour away, and when she had protested, he’d waved away her concerns about money. “A girl needs clothes,” he’d said. “Besides, we have insurance.”

Johnny was one of those men who knew that women needed things but had no idea what those things were, so he retreated to the food court and played with his smartphone while Gretchen wandered around the stores, trying to find a few items that
weren’t hopeless. The outlets were often the last resort, the place where more adventurous styles went to die. But she finally found a store that had some jeans and simple sweaters. Normally she might have looked for something more stylish, but she just couldn’t make herself care.

She bought socks. She bought underwear. She bought shoes, feeling angry that she had to spend money on these things.
The government should just issue this stuff to people
, she thought.
Make them standard. Why should I have to waste energy picking it out?

And when she got home, exhausted, she couldn’t go to her room. She couldn’t even go to her
home
. They were going to stay with the Archers for a few days. Evelyn had offered Gretchen Tim’s room—it was in the attic, and easily had the nicest view in the neighborhood—but Gretchen’s look of horror must have been obvious, because Mrs. Archer backed off completely and Johnny took that room. Gretchen got the guest room. That was fine with her. It was very basic: a full-sized bed and a bureau, a mirror, a chair to sit in. Bananas leaped up and curled between the navy blue pillows arranged against the headboard as Gretchen shoved her new clothes into drawers, not bothering to cut off the tags.

Then she’d tried to take a nap. But her mind whirled with the memory of the night of the fire. She’d had a vivid dream that had hung on the edges of her mind, just waiting for her to rest before launching a full-fledged attack. But when she rested, the dream
returned to her, not as a dream but as a memory, one she couldn’t stop:

She was standing on the shore, looking out at the dark water, a sky full of stars overhead. The full moon shone down on the water, sending a river of light across the still ocean. And there, gliding across the illuminated surface, was a sailboat. The two sails were full, two figures visible on deck.

Gretchen looked down at her feet. They were bare, and she dug her toes into the soft, pale sand. She did not wonder what she was doing there. She knew—she had sleepwalked out of the house, across the Archer property, and down to the water.

She looked back at the sailboat and saw a figure standing rigid as a soldier on deck. It was as if something had caught his attention out over the water. He called out, and Gretchen realized that the figure was Tim.

She didn’t find this strange. Instead, a wave of guilt washed over her. The last time they had spoken, she had told him that she did not love him. He had been kind—more than kind—but she knew that his heart was broken.

“Tim!” she cried, but he was calling to someone else—the other figure on the boat.

Will
. He looked up, and at that moment, a movement caught Gretchen’s eye. Something surfaced. It looked like a head, half out of the water near the boat. The full moon shone down, casting the eyes in shadow.

With a shout, Tim reached down. The figure lifted her arm, dripping, from the water. Her skin was pale,
and her long fingers ended in dagger-like nails. Something about the movement made Gretchen’s breath catch in her throat. She wanted to cry out, but found she couldn’t make a sound.

The figure pulled Tim into the water with a splash.

Will shouted and rushed to help his brother, but another figure burst through the water. She landed on deck, blocking Will’s path. She wore animal skins and smiled slowly, revealing teeth sharpened to shark points. Her dark hair streamed behind her in wild ropes as she stepped toward Will. He stumbled backward and made as if he might jump into the water. But now the river of light was dotted with rising heads.…

Tim surfaced for a moment, screaming, and Will lunged at the Siren. But she slashed him across the face, opening a deep gash that blinded him with blood.

Tim’s screams disappeared as the things dragged him back down, and the Siren leaped forward, clutching Will in her long arms. She wrapped an arm around his neck in an attempt to crush the life from him.

And then Gretchen heard herself keening. She felt as if her blood had caught fire in her veins, and she was running, running—running right out over the water. So fast she did not sink.

A hideous shriek fell from Gretchen’s lips—a primeval sound—and she saw the look of surprise, then fear, on the Siren’s face as Gretchen lunged on board.

The Siren released Will and stumbled backward.
She whispered something in a hoarse, guttural voice as Will lay gasping and coughing on the slick wood.

The word reached down into the depths of her memory. Somehow Gretchen knew it was a name, and she answered, “Yes.”

Then the Siren looked her up and down, taking in the nightgown, the youth of Gretchen’s face. She spoke strange words and laughed a slow, vicious chuckle, and Gretchen felt something harden in her then, as if she had been cast around a core of steel. There were two minds at work within her. One she recognized as her own, which swirled with fear and confusion. But there was another, unknown mind. This mind was not afraid.

The Siren sprang at her, knocking Gretchen against the mast. Gretchen cried out in pain as fire ripped through her body. Behind her, the sail burst into flame. Gretchen clasped the seekrieger as the surface of the water reverberated with shrieks, then grew quiet as the Sirens fled at the sight of the flames.

But Gretchen did not loosen her grip on the Siren in her arms. She fought, struggling against Gretchen’s grip, but Gretchen would not let go—not even when the Siren’s scream threatened to deafen her. Finally the Siren reached for the mast. She held on to the wood, placing all of their weight against it, and the light craft began to tip.

Tim surfaced again. He was limp, though, in the arms of a pale-haired Siren. Still, at the sight of his brother, Will clawed his way across the deck.

“No!” Gretchen screamed as Will hauled himself over the edge of the sailboat.

The Siren redoubled her efforts, and the
Vagabond
rolled over on its side, dousing the flames.

Gretchen felt like a hot brand dipped into water to be cooled. She couldn’t see Will, and some of her strength dissipated on the air, like steam.

Where is he?
She searched the water as the Siren kicked against her, then knocked her head with a fierce elbow.

There
. Gretchen released her grip and swam toward Will, who was kicking at the Siren who held his brother. Tim was dead, Gretchen could see that. Blood flowed from his open neck. A voice that was not her own cried, “Leave him!” as the Siren released Tim and landed a fierce blow against Will’s ear, knocking him unconscious.

Gretchen reached for the Siren, but she was too quick, darting away in fear. Gretchen grabbed hold of Will and fought through the water to haul him to shore. Most of her superhuman strength had departed, but so had the Sirens. It was difficult, but she swam with him, dragging him to shore.

When they were safe on the sand, she pushed against his stomach and breathed into his mouth until he coughed and gasped for air. His hair was wet and filled with sand as she brushed it away from his face. A small trickle of blood dripped from his ear.

She looked out over the water, where the boat lay on its side. The sea was perfectly calm, as if nothing
had ever happened. But Gretchen knew that Tim was there, somewhere below the surface.

Something slashed across her face then. She hit out as the smell of burning wood filled her nostrils. Someone shouted her name, and when the blackness cleared, she saw that she was in her room, after all. Will was there, and Gretchen looked around in confusion.

This was no dream.

Her room was on fire.

And then Will had appeared, knocking her out of her half-dream state and sweeping her out of her room.

But since that moment she had been convinced that the dream had been trying to speak to her and that Will was hiding something. He was a terrible liar, and on the Sunday morning that she confronted him, his face betrayed him.

She and Will had avoided each other for the rest of the day, but they had gone to great effort not to make it obvious. Their parents outnumbered them, after all, and no doubt would have tried to patch things up if they had realized that there was anything wrong. So Gretchen and Will joked with each other and kept things civil while others were in the room. And when they weren’t, they retreated to opposite ends of the house.

So here she was, at school, dressed in new clothes from top to bottom, inside and out. Dark wash jeans, gray shirt, green corduroy jacket, black boots, black socks. Will had driven her there in silence, and once
he had parked, she got out and walked toward the building without waiting for him. He didn’t try to catch up to her.

Gretchen was a walking husk, something dried up, ready to blow away at the slightest breath. She felt like there was nothing tying her to earth. She was wearing unfamiliar clothes, walking among unfamiliar people, living in an unfamiliar room. Even her body felt foreign to her.

Who am I?

Who am I, really?

Fire’s daughter
, came the answer, like a slap. She stopped in her tracks.

Kirk rounded a corner, and she found herself face to face with this artist who drew shadowy, fearsome women half submerged in the bay. Gretchen didn’t know how her dream was tied to the fire in her room, but she felt in her bones that everything—everything that was happening to her—was a piece of the same whole. “Tell me about your art,” she said to Kirk.

His dark eyes widened and his straight black brows drew together. He clutched his fat history book closer to his chest as if it were a shield. “What?”

“Tell me about the face in the water,” Gretchen pressed.

“I …” Kirk looked past her, as if for help, but nobody was paying attention to them. “I don’t … Don’t you know?”

“I’m not sure.”

“The … the seekriegers. The ones you …” He winced. “The ones you killed.”

Gretchen’s mouth went dry suddenly, like a drop of water evaporating from the surface of a hot pan.
I misheard him
, she told herself. “What?”