Fathom (Mermaids of Montana #3) - Elsa Jade Page 0,67

his rage—when a faint glow appeared in the near sky above the treetops.

He knew that color, had seen it too many times in the sky, in the water, in his nightmares.

Fire.

Revving the cycle to the edge of its performance capacity, he raced to Wavercrest. The singeing stink of burning erased his tracking sense of smell. Where was she?

Beyond the smoke and flickering leap of flame, the sky above the abode was clear. No ship. Not that he would’ve stopped or turned around if he’d glimpsed the Cretarni.

Because he knew it was them. How like the soil-suckers to burn and run, leaving ruin behind.

He skidded to a stop next to the fountain pool where the dark stillness of the water reflected furious red and gold light from the windows. For a moment, he felt cut loose, as if gravity had lost its grip on him. He’d seen this moment too many times, with plasma-fire so ferocious even water couldn’t stop it. But this time seemed upside-down; always before the vision of hungry conflagration had been mirrored on the underside of the churning sea, flames broken on the choppy waves but never extinguished…

Vertigo seized him, and he staggered, veering sideways on his bare feet worse than he had on the motorcycle. But he didn’t stop.

The heavy front door was as warped as his vision, as if it had taken an enormous shockwave. Without pausing, Sting hit the barrier with enough force to burst through it in one blow, though his shoulder might protest the damage even through his thickened flesh. Inside, the air was thick with choking smoke. No lights. No guardsman.

“Lana!” he roared with more power than the cycle’s engine. He charged toward the staircase, intent on the private rooms above. Down the hall from the back of the house, Thomas emerged, almost overrunning him, with a large red cylinder clenched his hands.

“The Cretarni,” he gasped. “They jammed comms before I could message you.”

“Where is Lana?”

“She and Kailani were upstairs in the music room. I’d just delivered cocktails.” He thrust the cylinder at Sting. “Take the fire extinguisher. I need to reboot to get the sprinklers back online.” His mouth twisted in an angry snarl. “They knocked out the house systems without even attempting to message us.”

Of course they had. Cretarni had never cared about noncombatants or spawnling over the centuries they carelessly dumped their toxins into the waters of Tritona, much less the bombs they dropped on purpose.

He launched himself up the stairs, four steps at a time, the heat choking him more with every rise. All the doorways along his path stood open and askew, the chaos of violent damage. Blast marks on the wall showed no aim or intent other than chaos and terror—even more of a marker of a Cretarni attack than the identifying signature of their ship—and flames shot out of the holes like the tentacles of a boundary beast trying to eat him.

He called Lana’s name again and sent a frantic pulse ahead of him. Never had a hunt mattered more.

There! A single point of life shone like a cool stone to his echolocation amid the interfering waves of intensifying heat.

He burst through the shattered arch that marked the music room entrance, calling out her name.

Another sweep of his senses found the huddled figure under the piano. Fed by a guttering wind sucking through the gaping hole where the windows had been, flames ate the instrument, the black lacquer bubbling like tar. Spraying the fire suppressant ahead of him, he charged forward. The reek of chemicals stole what was left of his breath.

“Kailani.” He crouched at her side. From his ping, he knew she was still alive but he’d never been taught the medic skills to assess how much damage had been inflicted or how to fix it.

He’d only ever been charged with inflicting the damage himself.

The red cylinder in his hand wasn’t large enough to fight the fire alone. Gently, he lifted her, cradling her in one arm against his chest. Tucking her limp form close, he scanned the room one last time though he knew Lana wasn’t there.

Flames curled up the walls behind the stringed instruments. Fire gouted from the holes carved into the varnished wood, red and yellow tongues licking ravenously, warning him that he and his burden were next. In the far corner, precariously exposed to the blasted-out hole where the Cretarni had forced their entrance, the harp was burning. Ribbons of flame flowed upward along the harmonic curve, reaching higher