Fury's Fire (14 page)

She was late. Late. And she wasn’t answering her cell phone. His heart pulsed with the fear of what it might mean, and his mind struggled to keep up with rational thoughts:
She ran into a friend. She went to a midnight movie. She left her phone at home. Customers came in late; she had to stay. Angel and Lisette invited her over
. And on and on. A thousand possibilities, all perfectly reasonable, but none as compelling as the undefined fear that haunted him.

And that was why, when the Gremlin finally pulled into the driveway, Will darted out of his room before the headlights cut off. He rushed out the front door and across the side lawn, over the small bridge, and into Gretchen’s yard.

She was still sitting in the driver’s seat, her forehead pressed against the steering wheel. Will knocked
against the window, and she turned her face to look at him.

“What happened?” he asked, yanking open the car door. His heart plummeted at the sight of her. Even in the darkness, he could see her despairing expression. The sleeve of her shirt was torn, her hair snarled. “What happened?” he repeated, trying to keep the desperate fear out of his voice.

Gretchen looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, the intense blue of her eyes half hidden in shadow. “We were mugged.”

“What?” Will knelt before her.

“Angus went with me to take the money to the bank,” Gretchen explained. “And some guy ran up behind us—”

Will reached for her, pulling her into a hug, pressing her against him. Of all the possibilities, a mugging hadn’t entered his consciousness. He kissed the top of her head, her wild dandelion hair, and stroked her back. “You must have been so scared.”

“No,” Gretchen replied. “I wasn’t.”

He pulled away from her then. “You weren’t?”

“Not until afterward.” She put a weary hand to her forehead. “Does that sound strange?”

Yes
, he thought. “Not really.”

Slowly she climbed out of the car. Will stood aside as the door creaked and slammed closed. “I’m so tired,” Gretchen said, clinging to Will’s arm. “I can’t deal with telling my dad about this.”

“I’ll come inside with you.”

“Would you?”

He squeezed her hand. “I’m not leaving.”

“You’re not?”

“I’ll sleep on your floor.” Gretchen laughed, but Will didn’t smile. “I’m not joking.”

He expected her to protest. But she just reached up and ran a light finger across the scar that slashed down his face. “You can stay,” she said. “But you won’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Gretchen turned restlessly in her sleep, and Will brushed a lock of damp hair away from her forehead. He wondered what dreams stripped their way through her mind. It was strange to think what a mystery she was, this familiar girl, who for as long as he could remember had been as much a fixture of his summers as hunting for crabs or riding the Ferris wheel at the county fair. He knew her. He knew her thoughts, he could finish her sentences, and yet she was a world of mystery to him.

What a deep, impenetrable loneliness that was—to know someone, and to love her, and to realize that there were places locked inside her that you would never see. Lonelier still was the feeling that he could help her, if only he could reach inside her and know her secrets.

And perhaps she could help him, if she knew his.

But fear kept him from speaking. And that, too, was lonely.

Why didn’t he speak? Will wasn’t sure of the answer. Once or twice he had thought that perhaps he should tell her about what happened that night on the
bay. But he didn’t want to terrify her. Or maybe he didn’t want to terrify himself. And the longer he waited, the harder it became to break his silence. If she ever asked him why he hadn’t said anything when she woke up in the hospital, he would answer that he didn’t feel he could speak about it—not then. It was too much.

And now?

Now it was still too much, but in a different way, because Will had finally realized that he loved Gretchen, loved her so much that it caused him physical pain to think of her harmed or afraid. So he sent up the walls and kept his secret locked away. And here he was, in her bed with her bare shoulder beneath his hand, and yet she was further from him than ever.

A moan escaped her parted deep red lips. Will worried that she might have a fever, as her skin felt warm beneath his fingertips. But it was warm in the room, with their bodies pressed together. He stole out of bed, careful not to let his movements wake her, and crossed over to the window. Pushing aside the curtains, he lifted the window and let in the cool night air. A breeze blew in, stirring the fabric and cooling his skin.

She turned over in the bed, and the blankets fell away from her. Will covered her with the sheet, then sat at the foot of the bed. He watched her for a long time. Then, restless, he pulled on some clothes and padded downstairs into the kitchen.

He didn’t turn on the light, and when he opened the refrigerator door he was nearly blinded. He waited
a moment for the shadows to become shapes, then reached for a pitcher of ice water. He poured some into a glass and drank, shivering, a rapid reversal from the heat he had just escaped. The house fell into darkness again as Will closed the refrigerator and walked down the hall and out onto the front porch.

It was early—five-fifteen by the clock on the kitchen microwave—and only the palest shade of gray had begun to light the horizon. Will liked this quiet time of day, when the earth seemed to be resting. The kitchen light was on at his house, of course—his mother was baking. She hadn’t noticed yet that he wasn’t in his bed. He wondered what she would say when she did.

“Gretchie?” The porch light snapped on overhead.

Johnny let out a surprised “Oh!” and Will stood to face him, blushing madly.

“Uh—”

“Oh,” Johnny said, relaxing slightly, as if he had feared an intruder. “It’s you.” He shook his head, bleary-eyed and confused. “Why are you still here?” The question was half addressed to himself, and he rubbed his goatee as his eyes traveled down Will’s rumpled, blushing form and to his bare feet, then back up to the glass in Will’s hand. An idea seemed to break over Johnny’s face, shifting his features. “Oh,” he said slowly, now clearly unsure what his response should be.

Will was frozen in place and might have stood there forever, dying particle by particle, but a scream, followed by the sound of breaking glass, pierced the
quiet darkness. It came from overhead—Gretchen’s room.

Will reacted faster than Johnny, plunging past him and back into the house. He flew up the stairs and threw open the door to Gretchen’s room. Light and heat blasted from the doorway—her room was on fire.

“Call 911!” Will shouted to Johnny. Falling to his knees to avoid the smoke, he crawled into Gretchen’s room.

Everything was in flames—the books on her desk, the curtains, the rug—and she stood in the center of her burning bed, in her thin nightgown, staring blankly. As she looked at him, she seemed to snap out of a trance. “Will?” She looked around her, clearly disoriented and frightened.

“Gretchen!” he shouted, and he stood, reaching for her wrist. But it was hot, and he cried out in pain. “Get down!”

She leaped over the flames and crawled behind Will to the door. They ran down the stairs, and Will grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around her as they headed outside.

“Oh, God, where’s Daddy?” Gretchen asked. Will started back inside the house, but a moment later, Johnny appeared carrying Bananas. He set the cat down and pulled Gretchen into a hug. “The fire department is on its way.”

Gretchen looked up at her window. Flames were still visible, the curtains nearly disintegrated in the heat. “I did that,” she whispered.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Johnny stooped a little to look her in the eye. “It wasn’t.”

But Gretchen wrenched her eyes from his. Will felt her seeking his glance, and he forced himself to look at her, even though every fiber of his body revolted at what he knew she would say next.

“I did that,” Gretchen repeated. “But I don’t know how.”

Bananas sat on Gretchen’s lap, purring contentedly, as if nothing had happened. Gretchen was perched in the corner of the Archers’ stiff couch, an uncomfortable beast that had nothing—not even excellent looks—going for it. The family’s living room was oddly formal, with a dark wood bowlegged coffee table and a faux Tiffany lamp. It was strange, because the furniture was so at odds with the comfortable, easy nature of the family itself. Gretchen guessed that the furniture was part of an inheritance. Maybe it had been in the house longer than any of the current inhabitants. But the furniture made the sitting room into something like a fancy shoe—it looked all right, but it wasn’t comfortable—and so it went mostly unused.

Gretchen knew how that could be. There were things she owned that she didn’t use and thus didn’t think about. She had been surprised how many had
appeared when she packed up her room in Manhattan. A jeweled belt, a pair of red patent stilettos, a long purple Indian skirt—all fragments of personae abandoned. Gretchen liked to think that she was getting better and better at finding things that reflected the person she was on the inside. The trouble was, that person kept changing.

Mr. Archer had arrived at the Ellis house only moments after the fire trucks had. Gretchen had been clutching Bananas, standing between Johnny and Will on the front lawn. They were watching as smoke poured from Gretchen’s broken window. Firefighters ignored them, going in and out of the house in businesslike fashion. Their heavy clothing and helmets made Gretchen think of army ants, who can carry twenty times their own weight.

“Cat’s not stuck in a tree, I see,” Mr. Archer drawled in his dry way.

Johnny turned and looked at his old friend, whose broad hand was on his shoulder. “Problem in Gretchen’s room.”

Mr. Archer looked troubled but not surprised.

Will said quickly, “These things are usually electrical.”

“You sure got here fast,” his father said to him, and Will clamped his mouth shut.

Gretchen couldn’t tear her eyes from the smoke.
That fire
, she thought,
is not electrical. It’s me. I caused it
.

She was sure of it.

I get upset, and things burst into flames
.

It was a simple explanation, and although it seemed impossible, there was no other explanation that worked.
It may not make sense
, Gretchen thought.
It may not seem possible. But that’s what it is
.

The edge of the sky was orange, fading to lilac overhead as the sun prepared for yet another dramatic entrance. Gretchen wondered what time it was. “Why don’t you all come on over for a while?” Mr. Archer suggested. “These guys will finish up here.” He didn’t wait for a response, just walked over to the nearest firefighter. Gretchen watched as Mr. Archer indicated his house and the firefighter nodded.

Mr. Archer walked back to them. “Let’s see what Evelyn has cooked up.”

Johnny and Mr. Archer walked side by side in companionable silence, and Gretchen, still clinging to her cat, trailed behind them with Will. Bananas struggled, and Gretchen hoisted her half over her shoulder so that the orange cat was looking backward, toward the Ellis house. Bananas hissed once, then settled down.

“He said there isn’t much damage. Mostly smoke in Gretchen’s room; that’s all.”

Johnny just shook his head. He looked over his shoulder at Gretchen, saw her watching him, then turned back to Mr. Archer. “Could have been worse.”

“A lot worse,” Mr. Archer agreed.

They walked in through the front door, and Gretchen set Bananas onto the Persian carpet in the hallway.
The cat promptly strutted off, as if she owned the place.

The house was filled with the sweet scent of cinnamon and browning sugar. From May to October, Evelyn woke up early to make scones and quick breads for the farm stand, then went back to bed around eight for a few hours.

“Sit here,” Mr. Archer said, indicating the stiff sitting room furniture. “I’ll go talk to Evelyn. Will, come help out.”

Johnny and Gretchen looked at each other uncertainly as Mr. Archer and Will stepped through the kitchen door. Gretchen heard Mrs. Archer’s voice ask, “What is going on over there?” Mr. Archer muttered something that Gretchen couldn’t catch.

Johnny sighed and perched at the edge of the overstuffed wing chair. His long legs made him look like an awkward spider. Gretchen sat down on the couch, and Evelyn bustled in with a plate of muffins. “The whole world’s gone crazy,” she said as she held the platter out to Gretchen.

“Thank you.” Gretchen took a carrot raisin muffin, and Mrs. Archer touched a strand of Gretchen’s hair.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” Mrs. Archer said.