Page 3 of Watch Me Burn (Sanctuary #1)

CHAPTER 2

CHASE

A ngie is a life saver.

I made it to Shadow Nails with forty minutes to go before closing. She’d just finished up with her last customer, and though she was ready to head out with Sam, the two of them were kind enough to stick around the fifteen minutes it took for Angie to make it look like I never snapped my nail. She did it free of charge as a kindness, I threw her twenty bucks to say thanks, then passed on her offer to walk with them until our paths split up.

Looks like Angie and Sam follow the same rules as Elise, but since I knew she’s only two blocks down, then a cross street in the opposite direction from the Sanguine, it’s pointless for me to join them.

Of course, Angie insisted. Feeling bad about being so hardheaded about it, I joined them for the first two blocks, then said goodbye as the two of them went down Fifth Street. I promised I’d get home quickly. I made it another three blocks when my phone buzzed, and I paused on the corner to see that Elise has sent me a text.

How do you feel about shrimp linguine?

I exhale roughly.

On the one hand, Elise is very thoughtful. Nearly every time she goes out to dinner with a new date, she brings me home take-out. She claims it’s her leftovers, but I know what a restaurant portion looks like. If she ate any of it before she boxed it up for me, I’d be surprised.

Now, she has money. From what I understand, her parents are loaded. She works because she enjoys her job, and she has a roommate because she was lonely and looking for a friend. For some reason, she picked me. If she enjoys spending her money, buying me take-out sometimes, I’m not going to complain.

On the other hand, I never see Elise eat. Like never . She says it’s because she has a very unique diet, but while she’s never without her steel stumbler, sipping on the metal straw, the only time I’m sure she’s actually eating more than snacks like popcorn and crackers is when she goes out to dinner.

If they’re her leftovers, she’s not eating there. If she’s paying for me, I have to think about her spending money on me that she doesn’t need to. Either way, I don’t want to confront her about it just yet.

Soon, I tell myself. Elise is like Mary freaking Poppins. Practically perfect in every way, except possibly hiding an ED. If I care about her, I’ll have to help her, but when she’s also the perfect picture of health, how do I accuse her of starving herself?

Lately, I’ve been dishing the leftovers out onto two plates and insisting shes split it with me. And while she does more playing with it than eating it, at least I know she’s getting some of it down.

With that in mind, I tap out a response.

You know how much I love shrimp. If that’s on the menu tonight, thanks so much We can share it later.

I already have it bagged up for you and Dorian is dropping me off now. Maybe we can finish our show if you don’t have any other plans?

What?

No.

Crap.

Not the show part. When I discovered that Elise has a fondness for binging television shows before going to bed, we’ve taken turns picking one and watching it together. Lately, on her suggestion, we’ve been going through Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She claims to love it, though she spends more time snorting and shaking her head during certain parts than anything else.

But if she’s already on the way home…

I was hoping she was just sitting down to dinner, picking out something she’ll order for me to bring home. If it was an early dinner, maybe she was paying the check and getting the leftovers together. But if her date is already bringing her back to the apartment now, no way will I beat her there.

Which means she’ll know I broke the stupid rules. And while I don’t see why it’s such a big deal, Elise cares—and I care about Elise.

My thumb hovers over my keyboard. I sigh, then I tap out a quick message.

Sounds great. I’m actually on my way back to the apartment too. When I get home, we can start where we left out.

I wince when I see the three grey dots pop up that mean she’s replying. Knowing Elise, I can predict her answer—and I’m right.

Where are you? I can meet you there instead and we’ll walk home together.

I’m guessing her date with Dorian being over so quickly means he’s not ‘the one’. But that also doesn’t mean she needs to ask him to drop her off by the nail salon so that she can babysit me on the way back. I appreciate the thought, but…

Don’t worry about that. I’ve got five blocks left and I’ll be fine.

Enjoy the rest of your date.

Get the remote ready. We’re starting season four tonight.

Then, before Elise can try to convince me, I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and start walking again.

I haven’t taken more than a couple of steps before my gut suddenly goes tight, and it’s not from the slight anxiety that comes with upsetting another person; as much as I love Aunt Maureen to death, she was the queen of the guilt trip so I’m used to it.

It’s something else, though. Something I don’t like.

My palms tingle. My heart rate kicks up. My mouth is dry.

What the hell ?

Something’s definitely not right. I can’t explain it, only that I have the urge to bolt, and that doesn’t make any sense. A shiver creeps down my spine, my whole body involuntarily shuddering. It’s like I’ve got the weight of someone’s eyes on me, and when I look behind me, I realize that I do .

He’s at the end of the block and moving at a quick clip, right at me. He has his head ducked enough to hide his features, though the same black scarf he was wearing before would’ve concealed them anyway. So, yeah, I know him. The shape… the coat… the fair hair…

That’s the guy that’s been standing by the bus stop.

Is he following me?

Only one way to tell. Acting like I don’t notice him coming down the street, I swallow the lump in my throat and look left, look right, see that no one is coming down the road in their car, and hightail it across the street.

Moving from one block to the next, I turn my head just enough to peek behind me.

Shit.

He crossed, too.

Maybe he’s decided to head back to the Sanguine on foot. We could be heading in the same direction coincidentally, but doesn’t he know better than to spook a woman walking out on her own? He should’ve stayed on the other side of the street, but he didn’t, and I really don’t like that.

I have my keys in my hand. The metal feels almost scalding hot against my fingers, like they’ve been left out in the sun instead of my sweatshirt pocket. I don’t care. I clutch them tighter, removing them from my pocket so I have better access to them, and the sensation fades.

The feeling that he’s right on my ass doesn’t .

Up ahead is another cross street. It’ll take me a good five minutes out of the way, but if that will help me shake him, that’s fine. Besides, maybe I can get enough distance between us so that I can call Elise, see if her and Dorian can swing this way after all.

I turn the corner quickly, keeping my slight lead.

There are far fewer lights down this street. It was already dark out, but unless I’m imagining it, it’s gotten impossibly darker . Even weirder, it seems like it’s around me. Like a black cloud or… or a mess of shadows is tracking my every panicked step. Following me? Or part of me?

Smoke, I think, a touch hysterically. I think it might be smoke.

On the heels of that thought, something smells like it’s burning. I sniff, blowing the air out of my nose when the stink of singed hair fills my nostrils.

I pause, searching for the telltale orange glow of a nearby fire, listening for a crackle and a sizzle, and finding none.

That was a mistake. I’d hoped that he would pass by the cross street, going on his merry way. Nope. While I was distracted, the stranger turned the corner.

How do I know? Because, all of a sudden, he has my wrist in his grasp.

It’s the hand holding my keys. I hear a jangle, but it’s not my car key rustling against the apartment key that makes the noise. Oh, no. It’s the sound of handcuffs being unleashed before the metal scrapes against metal as he gets it around my right hand.

Did I think I was panicked before? That’s nothing compared to the realization that this stranger just cuffed me. I shriek, spinning around on him. I can’t gouge his eyes out with my keys. He disarmed me too well for that.

But I have another hand, and tearing it out of my sweatshirt pocket, I thrust it at the stranger.

The move was an instinctive one. Like I just wanted to shove him away from me any way I could so that I don’t become the first crime statistic in Clarity over the last half-decade after all.

If only that’s what happened.

You know what does happen?

Fire.

I shoot fucking fire out of my palm.

It streams out like a jet, hitting him right in the chest. His scarf catches first, then his thick coat, and the shock of being set ablaze has him letting go of the other half of the handcuff.

I don’t run. I can’t run. I just watch in horror as he backs away from the fire that’s enclosing my entire right hand.

It tickles. Tickles . There’s no heat, and if it wasn’t for the renewed stink of something burning and the warmth pouring off of the stranger, I’d think I was imagining it.

But I’m not.

Not even a little.

He screams.

I scream.

The fire roars .

It rages, too, and all I can think is that the fire is coming out of me before my brain shuts down, everything goes dark, and I start to fall while he just stands there, burning.

Even as I lose consciousness, the man’s howls of agony chase after me.

I’ve never been a vivid dreamer. When I wake up after having one, it’s more vibes than anything. The child therapist Aunt Maureen had me seeing for a while thought it had to do with me losing my parents so young. That part of my psyche was damaged when they died in a car crash, leaving three-year-old Bridget behind.

She was a quack, that one.

As I come to again, the echoes of an agonized scream bouncing around my skull, I hope like hell that maybe she was onto something, and it just took until I was twenty-nine to figure it out.

Because that had to be a dream right? I didn’t really get handcuffed by a stranger only to set him on fire … forget dream. It had to have been a nightmare .

I’m on my belly. Something warns me against trying to wake up right now, almost as though I could fall asleep again and completely forget my bad dream. So I shift, ready to roll onto my side and snuggle into my pillow… and that’s when I sense the cool metal on both of my wrists, biting into my skin, keeping my achy arms tied behind my back.

Handcuffs. I’m still wearing handcuffs. Not just one, either, but a pair.

I’m caught. I’m alive, but I’m caught, and whatever that stranger with the scarf wanted with me, this isn’t my bed. I should’ve known that right away. The flat pillow beneath my nose smells clinical and musty, with a hint of an unfamiliar tang. The sheets are scratchy.

The cuffs weigh heavily on my hands.

He got me.

Fuck .

In my renewed sense of panic, I don’t just roll onto my side in a foolish bid to escape the damn cuffs. I keep turning and discover that the bed I’m on isn’t quite a bed. It’s a narrow cot that’s barely wider than I am. I rock and I roll right off of it.

I land with a grunt on my back, the metal digging painfully into my wrists. My arms feel like they’re about to twist right out of my sockets, too.

Through it all, I keep my eyes screwed shut because I’m really still holding onto the hope that this is one very vivid, very awful dream.

“Bridget!”

There goes that. At the familiar voice—and my name—my eyes spring open. I immediately clamp them shut again when the bright white light overhead sears my retinas, but at least I know now that I haven’t been thrown into some dank dungeon somewhere to rot.

I’m not alone, either.