Page 1 of Ignite

PROLOGUE

EZRA

TWELVE YEARS OLD

There’s too much blood.

It drips from my trembling hands as I stumble toward the stairs of my concrete prison—a small, windowless basement in a creaky suburban house.

Fourteen stairs to climb. Fourteen stairs, and I will have escaped hell.

Come on, Ezra.

The choking, gurgling sounds from the man I just stabbed twists my stomach into sickening knots.

No. Not a man.

Evil given flesh and bone. He deserved death. I shouldn’t feel a lick of remorse over giving it to him. He kept me in the dark so long I’d nearly succumbed to a lifelong sentence oftorture.

As my heart slams against my ribcage, I keep my head tilted up, eyes focused on that rectangle of golden sunlight painting the first floor of the house. Nothing else matters. Nothing else except reaching the top of those stairs.

Nine more to go. The demons won’t follow me. They’ll stay buried with the corpse I’m leaving behind.

Eight. I’ll survive this. Everything will be better when I make it to the top.

I stumble up the next few steps on weak legs, and the little scrap of confidence I’ve worked so hard to coax out of the chasm where I’ve shoved everything away shrivels.

By the time I reach the landing, tears I swore I wouldn’t cry leak from my eyes, trailing hot and endless down my face. God only knows how long they’ve been collecting inside of me.

I drag myself into that pillar of warm sunlight and break down, quaking so hard with sobs I’m certain I’m going to fall apart.

Is this shame normal? This disgust over what I’d done? I’d grabbed that screwdriver so fast, jabbing it into the soft flesh of my captor almost on instinct. It was like some raw, primal beast had overcome me as soon as I saw him drop it on the floor. Once warm blood spurted over my small hand, that beast fled, leaving me utterly lost in its wake.

Eyes blurry and fingers slick, I crawl to the front door and battle with the locks. My pulse continues to throb under my clammy, dirt-streaked skin.

What if this isn’t real? What if I’m dreaming again?

Another sob escapes the depths of my tattered soul. Oh, God. Don’t let me wake up. I don’t want to wake up. Don’t give me hope just to take it away.

Flicking the last lock on the door, I stumble out onto the porch and suck in my first breath of clean, humid air. Is it summer? I’m really not sure.

My shaking legs fail me, dropping me onto the concrete hard enough to rattle my bones.

Gritting my teeth against the jolt of pain, I pull my body down the front steps, leaving bloody handprints along the way.

I sprawl out on the grass. The soft tickle of it against my skin feels absurd. I’d long forgotten the burn of the sun, too. I’d let it bake me right here if not for the panic swimming through my veins, jolting my brain with alerts to keep moving.

Not safe. Not safe. Never safe.

That man is dead. I stabbed him. I watched him bleed.

Why am I still so scared?

I can’t get my breathing under control. The weight of all these unleashed emotions is crushing my lungs. I might die right here, bleeding out from internal wounds.

That panic jolts me upright, snapping me back into survival mode. I scan the tiny property that I had once foolishly believed would become my first true home. A quaint two-story, robin’s egg blue house. A leaning chain-link fence. A cracked driveway spilling out into a street flooded with traffic.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, only that I need to keep moving. I need to wash my tainted skin clean before anyone sees what I’ve done.