I hadn’t appreciated how close. As we mounted a hill, I saw her hut with its sweet hatched roof.
Mary put on a burst of speed. I caught a flash of her gaze, and it was the fiercest thing I’d ever seen. Seriously, it could put McCain’s burning stare to shame any day.
“Come on, child. Come on,” she called.
I didn’t have the heart to point out to her that we looked about the same age. And though, technically, she was much, much, much older than me, to the tune of about 400 years, I wasn’t exactly a child.
We reached the door. Rather than push a hand into the folds of her skirt and pull a key from her pocket, she simply rounded her shoulder and slammed it into the wood.
Damn, this woman was Scottish Rambo.
As soon as she pulled me into the house, she whirled around, her skirts brushing against my legs as she closed the door with a bang.
She took a step back, her eyes wildly flicking left and right as she appeared to search for something.
I shifted around, spied the table, jerked over to it, and started to push the freaking heavy solid slab of wood toward the door. “Give me a hand,” I managed through a heave.
“No, child. That won’t do. Let me…” she trailed off as she appeared to concentrate.
She shifted toward me, and I caught sight of her eyes. God, there were sparks in them – these tiny flecks of light like dying cinders from a fire.
Fireflies. They looked exactly like fireflies.
Just as the fireflies coalesced and took over the whites of her eyes, Mary shook her head, and they disappeared.
She jolted forward, appearing to know what to do.
She grabbed up a jug of what I thought was water and placed it on the ground. Then she jumped up, twisted, pushed toward the fire, and plucked out a burning log, protecting the bare flesh of her palm with her sleeve.
She set the burning log down just before the jug.
From outside, I heard a roar. It was an unmistakable sound. One that had buried itself within my head. Even if I lived to a ripe old age, my body would always remember that sound.
The sound of impending horror.
My heart pounded in my chest, and I jerked back from the table. “Mary, we’ve got to defend ourselves.”
She turned to me, her ginger hair bunching over her shoulder and accentuating her pale, freckled skin. “Don’t worry, child. We are.”
With that, McCain reached the door. He gave one last rib-splitting roar then kicked the door in.
The door, though it was made out of a massive, inch-thick chunk of hardwood, splintered. It split apart with the ease of a twig being slashed by an ax.
Mary stood her ground, drawing up her arms to protect her face as shards of wood dashed against her and scattered at her feet.
I screamed.
Mary didn’t make a sound.
McCain strode forward, arms stiff at his sides, accentuating just how powerful his body was.
His sword jostled at his hip, and as a wild rage flared in his eyes, so too did a wild flame rage across the sheathed blade.
Mary made no move.
When McCain had literally kicked the door down, shards of wood had dislodged the jug of water. Except it wasn’t water – it was too viscous. It looked more like oil.
And oil it was.
Mary, tipping her head back in defiance, her jaw hardening as her eyes half closed, kicked the burning branch of wood into the oil.
With a crackle and a spit, the oil caught fire.
Max had been striding forward through the oil, and as it ignited, it rushed up his legs.
He bellowed and jumped backward.
Mary moved. A few more sparks collected in her eyes, making her look as if she was literally starstruck.
She pushed into Max, knocking him flat as he batted at the flames climbing his legs.
The small, low-ceilinged room started to fill with smoke. I slammed a shaking hand over my mouth, trying to breathe through my sleeve.
The flames began to push through the room, catching hold of anything that would burn.
Really, this had been Mary’s plan to escape? At this rate, we’d all be burnt to death in this thatch grave.
Mary, it appeared, had other plans.
As Max fell to his side, his arm splashing into the burning flame, she whirled around and pushed toward me. “Pass me the book.”
When I didn’t move, frozen there in shock as the smoke filled my lungs and the fire filled my eyes, Mary pushed forward. She held a hand out to me, the most entreating look I’d ever seen filling her deep blue eyes.
It snapped through the fear holding me in place.
I threw her the book. Fortunately, my aim held, and the book didn’t fall into the flame.
Mary caught it, twisted the book around, opened it, and placed a hand flat on the page.
Max was bucking by her feet, the flame still riding his body, climbing him like a spider climbs a wall.
I instinctively knew it wouldn’t last. McCain was more powerful than this. Sure enough, with a rattling word echoing from his throat, the flames began to subside. I’d never seen anything like it. It looked as if someone was recalling them, like a fisherman drawing in his line.
Slowly, ominously, he planted one charred hand on the smoldering floor. With a look of absolute hatred igniting in his gaze, he pushed to his feet.
Mary still had her hand flat on the contract. She whirled, faced McCain, and took a step backward, her skirts pushing through the smoke and sending it billowing toward McCain.
“Don’t,” she warned.
He
