Page 62 of The Fire Went Wild

Like he ran his hands over me

—And the lock snaps somehow, some piece of metal hitting the patio with a whispered clang. Jaxon eases the door open, and the curtain on the other side billows in, giving me a glimpse of the tile floor.

He gestures for me to follow him. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.

We push through the gauzy curtains and into the living room. It’s surprisingly sparse in terms of furniture, like the owner of this house, Jaxon’s victim, spent all his money on the property and didn’t have anything left for couches and chairs.

Jaxon stands still, head cocked, the antlers dark. I hold my breath, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

He turns to me. Points up to the ceiling. Upstairs.

I’m dizzy at what he’s asking me to do, and some part of me snaps. I shake my head. Point at the floor.Here, I want to say, but I’m too afraid to speak.

The empty spaces that are Jaxon’s eyes almost seem to flash. He points at the ceiling, then grabs my wrist, and yanks me with him. I want to fight. Ishouldfight, and scream, and make noise, and ruin everything. But that knife is gleaming at his belt, and I can see the lump of the gun underneath his shirt. That’s two ways to kill me, plus his long graceful fingers.

So I follow. Again.

We weave through the big, empty living room and a narrow foyer until we come to an enormous circular staircase. Jaxon moves through the house like he’s been here before. He does slow down a little as we go up the stairs, pausing now and then with his head tilted. Listening. Tracking. I don’t hear anything but the occasional creaking moan as the house settles into its massive foundations.

Then Jaxon moves again, more quickly. On the second-floor landing, he walks with big, loping strides. This part of the house feels as empty and unlived-in as the rest. There are no pictures on the walls. No Christmas decorations waiting to be taken down. No discarded shoes or shelves full of knick knacks.

Then I hear it—the low hum of a television. Light flickers into the hallway, spilling out of an open door. Jaxon stops and holds up his hand and I run into it, his fingers splaying across my heart.

He tilts his antlered mask toward me. I wish I could see his eyes.

Then he moves, darting forward and whipping himself into the room. There is a long, empty pause and then a man’s scream that cuts short.

“In here!” Jaxon shouts, and I feel the words vibrate in my bones. “Now!”

But I can’t move. I don’twantto move. I just stand outside the doorway, sucking down deep shuddery breaths.

“Charlotte!” he orders.

That cuts through my fear. “Don’t say my name!” I screech, the first thing I think of. I don’t move, though. Not even when Jaxon steps through the doorway, a monster wrapped in shadow.

He pulls the knife off his belt, the metal gleaming. It’s clean.

“What did you do?” I whisper.

“Knocked him out.” Jaxon’s fingers tighten around the handle of the knife. “So you won’t have to fight him.”

It takes me a moment, a long moment, to register what he’s saying. “Fight him?” I shake my head. “Why would I?—”

Jaxon grabs my arm and jerks me forward, yanking me through the doorway and into a bedroom, the TV on the wall still softly playing some old sitcom. When I step inside, the canned laughter kicks in.

There’s a man slumped on the bed. Middle-aged, with short dark hair, a stocky build.

“You knockedhimout?” I sputter.

“I’m not human,” Jaxon says in a slow, dangerous voice. “I can do things you wouldn’t expect.” He looks toward me again, his hand still wrapped around my arm. His touch softens, although only a little. “You need to do it.”

“What?” I wrench myself away from him, stumbling sideways. He stares at me, a monster offering me a big silver blade. “Why?” Panic bubbles into my throat. “Is this some kind of—blackmail thing? Are you recording me?”

“No.” He steps closer, slow and threatening. I bump up against the wall, knocking my head against the TV. One of the characters says something and the room fills with laughter again. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?”I look over at the man, willing him to stir. To open his eyes. To save me, somehow.

“It’s—” Jaxon steps in front of me, blocking my view of the man. I don’t even know his name becauseJaxondoesn’t know his name. Maybe he’s a criminal—a drug dealer, a human trafficker. I still don’t want to kill him.