arm. A drop of water clung to her wrist, but it quickly evaporated.
Another appeared.
And another.
Then rain was pouring down, a full deluge, the kind you usually saw in late summer. Lightning crackled in the clouds overhead, but the rain was heavy, wet, and constant.
And it put out every single lick of flame.
Hunter was drowning in darkness, every now and again breaking the surface of awareness.
The first time, his eyes were pried open, and the light was blinding. He flinched away. He wondered if he’d fallen in among the flames, because his entire body felt like it was burning and freezing at the same time.
A woman’s voice was speaking. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s going to need—” But just as he was about to make out the rest of her words, everything went black again.
The second time, he opened his eyes to fire and darkness, and he felt sure they’d left him. He sucked in a huge choking breath, breathing more smoke than oxygen. A hand squeezed his, hard, sending sparks of pain shooting through his shoulder. Gabriel Merrick’s voice. “Come on, Hunter.” Then the sparks took over, and he was out again.
The third time, Hunter woke to whispers.
At first, the sounds were nonsensical, and he couldn’t puzzle them out through the haze in his brain. His eyes didn’t want to open yet. He didn’t sense fire or danger, but rain rattled against windows.
Windows. He was inside.
He just didn’t know where.
Now he kept his eyes closed on purpose, trying to assess more before revealing that he was awake, and alert.
Think.
Carnival. Ferris wheel. Fire.
Calla.
The way her body jerked.
The way he’d run. The way he’d hit the ground.
He wanted it to be a dream, but the pulsing ache in his shoulder convinced him it wasn’t. None of it was.
Hunter fought to keep his breathing even.
The whispers drew close, but he still couldn’t make sense of the words. Breath brushed his cheek, then a finger stroked across his eyebrow.
Hunter flung out a hand and seized a wrist. He jerked upright and looked at his captive.
A boy, looking just as shocked as Hunter felt. Young and blond and wide-eyed, he couldn’t have been more than five or six. His expression was frozen in that state where crying was a possibility.
Hunter let him go.
Then he winced, as the adrenaline wore off and his body suggested that sudden movement hadn’t been a bright idea.
The little boy hadn’t moved, but at least he didn’t look like he was going to cry anymore. He’d leaned forward. “Why do you have earrings in your face?”
What the hell? Hunter rubbed his eyes. He was sitting on a couch, a comforter thrown over him. The room was dim, pale light breaking through the rain, meaning either early morning or early evening. His shirt was gone, but he still had on his jeans. His shoulder hurt like hell. One of his hands was bandaged across the palm.
Hunter’s brain couldn’t piece it all together.
Wait. He knew this room.
The Merrick house.
But then who was this kid, peering at him curiously, reaching out a hand to touch the piercings in his eyebrow?
Hunter caught his wrist again, but more gently. “Where is everyone?”
“Mommy is working.” His voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “I’m supposed to be sleeping, but I wasn’t tired anymore.”
The house was a well of quiet, insulated by the rain smacking the glass outside. At least that meant it was probably morning.
The boy stretched for a remote control on the coffee table, ignoring Hunter’s hold on his wrist. “Can I turn on cartoons?”
This was . . . surreal. Hunter let him go again. “Sure.” He paused. “Do you know where everyone else is?”
“They’re sleeping.” The boy climbed up on the couch next to him as if he’d known Hunter all his life. Then he clicked on the television.
Hunter sat there for a full minute and wondered what to do.
Unfortunately his brain kept replaying the previous night.
Fire.
Gunshot.
Calla.
The music from the cartoons was like water torture. Hunter rubbed at his eyes again, suddenly worried he was going to be sick.
He needed to find out what had happened, whether they were still in danger.
He stumbled off the couch, leaving the boy there. The front door was locked, but he threw the bolt and stepped onto the porch.
Rain coursed down from the dark gray sky, slapping against the siding and running in rivers down the driveway. It had to be very early, because he didn’t sense motion from any of the houses on the street.