Ember Boys (Flint and Tinder Book 1), page 16
“Oh,” Jim said, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s pretty complicated.”
Even though I felt like shit, I was fighting a smile. In that moment, I knew what to do. I hadn’t really thought of it that way before, but Jim was like Vie in some important ways. I had helped Vie—I’d stomped his heart into a million pieces, I was pretty sure, but I’d also helped him. And so I could help Jim.
“Your lessons were boring,” I said.
Jim blinked a few times. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Boring. Your lessons were boring. And you graded way too harshly.”
“I think you got straight A’s from me.”
“Yeah, but I had to work for them, and that’s bullshit. You’re a liar, too. You lied about your dating life when you were teaching.”
“That was none of your business.”
“And you lied about your job here. And you lied about having an apartment. And you lied about your powers.”
“If we’re airing grievances, I have a few things I’d like to say.”
“No, you just have to listen. You dress way too nicely for a teacher. You should be hunched over and frumpy and wrinkled. You should be wearing denim overalls or track pants or tweed.”
“What about my hair?”
“Your hair is all right.” I blew out a breath; the shakes were starting up again, but this time, they didn’t have anything to do with withdrawal. “You are the most patient person I have ever met.”
Jim licked his lips. His voice wavered when he said, “You should have heard me in the teachers’ lounge.”
“You are the kindest person I have ever met.”
“I passed an old lady changing her tire and didn’t stop to help her.”
“You are the most self-sacrificing person I have ever met.”
“No,” he said, and his lips compressed into a white line.
“You are the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. I appreciate it. But I want you to stop.”
“I don’t know what Lady Buckhardt did to you when she took you. I don’t know anything about it really.”
“Stop, Emmett.”
“I know you were a kid. And I know she did terrible things to kids. Made them do terrible things.”
“Stop it.” His voice cracked; the temperature in the room climbed, and frost on the walls melted and wicked away in shining drops. “Right fucking now.”
I nodded. “But as bad as it was, you still helped Vie. You didn’t run away.”
He set his jaw, but a muscle in his cheek still twitched crazily.
“All you want to do is take care of people.”
Looking away from me, he wiped his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, the word wet. “Fat lot of help I was.”
“You helped me.”
“Look at where we are, Emmett. I just made things worse.”
“With the notable exception of Vie,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “nobody has ever told me no. But you do. You should get a medal just for that.”
He wiped his eyes again; he still couldn’t look at me.
“Jim,” I said.
“Please don’t do this,” he whispered.
“I’m a spoiled, selfish asshole. And you know what I’ve learned from being a spoiled, selfish asshole?”
He might have shaken his head; he might have just been trembling.
“The people who love you? When it matters, when it’s best for you, they tell you no. Even if it makes you mad. Even if you hate them for it.”
His hand came down, outlining his mouth, before he shook his fingers like he was trying to get rid of something.
“I know you don’t want me to kiss you,” I said. “Although, just to be clear, I would really, really like to. I know you think that . . . that wouldn’t be right. I’m trying to respect that.”
He just sat there, shivering and blinking and refusing to look at me.
“But could I hug you?” I asked. “Please?”
A long minute passed; Jim looked like he was shell-shocked, staring off into the distance, shivering and trembling and breathing funny. On my knees, I inched toward him. I wrapped my arms around him slowly. I drew him against me until his head rested on my shoulder.
“It’s been a long time, right?” I said, the words barely more than a whisper. I could feel it in his body—the years of wanting to be touched, the years of being alone.
I thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he snuffled and said, “Yeah.” He snuffled again. “God, years. I don’t even know how long.”
“Jim,” I hesitated, my breath hitching. “I love you. Whatever you want that to mean, whatever you’ll let it mean.”
He didn’t speak, but with one hand, he grabbed a fistful of my hair, and with the other, he grabbed a fistful of my shirt. He held on like he was afraid the universe would blow him away, and tears stung my eyes, but I stayed still while he cried and tried to hold himself together.
When his breathing eased, I touched his wrist. He flinched and released me, and then he scooted back. But he was different. I could feel it. I could see, in his eyes, that he could feel it too.
He nodded at me.
“That was a very tender moment,” I said, biting the corner of my mouth, trying not to grin.
“Smartass.”
I let the smile slip out. “Now, would you stop being a pussy for five minutes and burn down that fucking door?”
“Yeah,” Jim said. And then he frowned. “And don’t call people pussies.”
Jim got to his feet, faced the door, and then gave a little backward glance and wave to make sure I was safely behind him. When he turned his attention back to the door, the temperature in the room surged up: not just a degree or two; not ten or twenty. The air warmed until it scorched my lungs on each breath; it rippled and bent, distorted by heat. Embers danced and swam around Jim; highlights in his hair turned auburn and then coppery. Someone in the hallway started shouting for Vleck, and that name rang a bell, although I was too shaken and sick to place it. More shouts came at us from the hall, telling us to stop, telling us there was going to be trouble.
They were right; there was going to be a hell of a lot of trouble.
Setting one hand over the lock, Jim leaned into the door. For a moment, he looked like a mime, like he was just pretending to push. And then the metal glowed red and then orange, and with a sizzle, rivulets of molten steel dripped down around his fingers. When his hand went through the lock, it made a soft, wet plop, like pulling your foot out of mud.
Outside, the shouting had stopped, and footsteps beat a hasty retreat.
“I guess they decided they weren’t too worried about trouble,” I said.
When Jim turned around, he looked exhausted: dark circles under his eyes, his face drawn, a thinness to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before. Black patches smoldered on his clothes. While I watched, a section of his shirt as big as my fist flaked away, exposing pale skin and fine blond hair.
“Come on,” Jim said. “Before they change their—”
A hand grabbed me and yanked me back. I stumbled, off balance, and then I got my footing and tried to twist free. The grip was strong. And cold. And stiff. I staggered and lunged, barely breaking loose, and turned to stare at the dead woman who had caught hold of me. She was pushing herself up from the gurney, the sheet dropping away. She might have been in her mid-twenties; her eyes stayed rolled up, the whites visible between lids that would never close again.
Then I remember where I’d heard the name Harold Vleck.
Harold Vleck, who pretended to be just another orderly at the hospital.
Harold Vleck, the animator, who had sent a dead man to kill Chloe and me.
Harold Vleck, who I now realized worked for the same faction of the Shadow Court that had decided to eliminate Jim and me.
And Jim and I weren’t just in a refrigerator.
We were in a morgue.
“Emmett—" Jim shouted as more hands grabbed me and dragged me into the maze of shelves.
22 | JIM
I watched as dead men and women got up off gurneys and shelves. I watched as they grabbed Emmett and dragged him away from me. It wasn’t fear that held me in place; it was disbelief. I’d never seen anything like this. Even after everything I’d been through, it didn’t seem possible.
But it was possible.
And they were taking Emmett.
A dead man had almost reached me by the time I was able to act. One arm swung out, trying to grab me, and I dodged. My hip checked an empty gurney, and it skittered away. It was the only sound in the morgue; even Emmett’s shouts had cut off. I could barely see him, just a glimpse of dark hair, as they dragged him back between the metal racks of shelving in the refrigerated unit. The dead man near me staggered, lurched, and snagged my arm. I tried to break free, but the frigid, puffy grip was stronger than I had expected, and the dead man pivoted and hurled me into the wall. My head hit steel, and the paneling flexed under me and chimed dully. The world went sideways.
They were taking Emmett.
The fire inside me, the fire that was always there, ate through its chains and burst loose.
The dead man closest to me burned to ash before he could take another step. A semi-circle of three more who were approaching burst into flames, the fire chewing through frozen hair and flesh and bone. I charged at them, darting and twisting as they tried to grab me. Inside, where I held the fire, I threw open passageways that I had kept barred for a long time, and the flames billowed out.
A middle-aged woman, stout around the middle, her hair a peroxide cap, tottered out of the darkness and threw herself at me. My hand swept in an arc, and a blade of fire followed, cutting through the woman at an angle. She dropped back in two pieces.
Emmett was in the next aisle, less than a yard away, struggling with three of the dead. A whiplash of fire caught the closest one, opening a sizzling line down the center of him. I sent a lance of flame through the next one. The third one was behind Emmett, trying to get a grip on his head—to break his neck, I realized. Emmett saw me coming and dropped. Flames as thick as my arm shot from one of my hands, burning a hole through the dead man.
“Come on,” I shouted. I was careful to grab Emmett’s shirt, but he still yelped when I touched him, and I released him as soon as I could. I burned another dead woman to ash when she stumbled into our path; the three that had tried to block me on my way after Emmett now lay in sizzling piles. We spilled out of the refrigerator, and I crashed hard against the wall.
The fire inside me never went out; I don’t think it could. But it drew back, quieted, banked down to embers. It was like splashing gasoline on a blaze, and then the sudden absence of heat and flame when the accelerant burned off.
It also left me wrecked. I sagged against the wall, gasping.
“Jim,” Emmett said, grabbing my arm and then hissing and pulling back his hand. “Jim, they’re coming.”
He was right. The morgue had been full, and the dead were awake and moving towards us. Their movements were slow and shuffling, but even as I watched, they seemed to grow more fluid, more confident, more natural. In a few minutes, they’d be running. They were tireless. They were strong.
“Upstairs,” I said.
“No.” Emmett twisted, obviously trying to get his bearings, and then pointed. “That way.”
“Emmett, I can’t hold them back. Not all of them. I’m exhausted, and you’re in danger, and—”
“They’ve got Chloe. She’s got to be here.”
“We don’t know—”
“One of the quiet-time rooms. That’s where she has to be, and I’m not going to leave her.” His expression crumpled. “I would want someone to do it for me, Jim. That’s what she told me. And she’s right.”
I didn’t have the strength left to argue; I nodded. When Emmett broke into a jog, heading away from the stairs, I limped after him as fast as I could. He glanced back twice, and both times I waved for him to keep going. I kept my attention on the horde of dead spilling out of the refrigerator. They were moving almost humanly now, their gait occasionally uneven or awkward, but smoothing out more and more by the moment. I called up a wall of flame, and they drew back. The fire wouldn’t last long. I turned and kept limping.
We took two corners before I lost Emmett, and for a moment, panic caught me by the throat. Then he poked his head out of a room and waved. I took the first step toward him.
Behind me came the sound of a herd in stampede. The dead had learned to run.
From somewhere, I found a final reserve of energy, and I sprinted. I reached the room just as Emmett was unstrapping a bruised and battered Chloe from a mattress. Her eyes were unfocused; I assumed that, like me and Emmett, she had been drugged.
“What’s that—” Emmett started to ask.
I stumbled into the room, shut the door, and put my back to it.
“The bed,” I shouted. “Get the bed over here.”
Emmett, bless him, didn’t hesitate; he helped Chloe to the ground and then shoved the bed toward the door. He was still sick, still shaking, and he’d been through hell, but he had more guts than just about anybody I’d met. The bedframe screeched across the cement, and together, Emmett and I wedged it between the door and the wall.
Something heavy struck the door, and it snapped free from the strike plate. It would have flown open, but the bed was in the way, leaving only enough room for the door to open an inch. Gelid, puffy fingers forced their way through the crack. The door, which was reinforced steel, began to bend. The metal squealed as it crumpled.
“Holy shit,” Emmett said.
“Calm down,” I said.
“Holy shit. They’re going to rip the door out of the frame. Jim, they’re going to—”
I turned to face him. I tamped down the heat as best I could, and then I took his face in my hands. “Calm down.”
He took a whistling breath. Then another. The shriek of bending steel punctuated my heartbeats.
“You can do this,” I whispered.
“I can’t.”
“Emmett, you can do this.”
“It’s gone. I used to be able to do it, but it’s gone.”
I didn’t know how Emmett had helped me, not really. I understood at an abstract level, sure. The same thing that made Emmett a brutally effective bully, the same thing that made him a predator, the same thing that made him a slow-burning fuse of sex—that same thing made him compassionate and insightful. He understood people. He understood them even when he didn’t understand himself.
I didn’t have that. But I needed it. And I was running out of time.
“When you went to Vie’s mom,” I said, my fingers pressing into his face, leaving little white patches of pressure, and the scarred half felt strangely textured and smooth at the same time. “When you asked her for this, what did you want?”
“To protect Vie.”
I shook my head. “What did you want, Emmett?”
“Not to be powerless.”
My thumb skated down, lingered on the mutilated corner of his mouth, then lower, dragging on his lower lip. “What did you want? What did you really want?”
He whispered, and I couldn’t hear the words over the screech of tortured metal.
But I could read them on his lips.
And I knew. I’d always known, even if I hadn’t known how to say it.
“I never wanted to be hurt again.”
I leaned down, my thumb sliding under his lip until it rested on the line that divided the scarred half of his face from the unmarked side.
“Em,” I said, holding his gaze, watching the tears fill his eyes. “Life means getting hurt sometimes. You only stop getting hurt when you’re dead.” The door ripped free with a shriek, but I didn’t look, and neither did Emmett. I leaned closer. “Now, I’d really like that kiss.”
He met me halfway, his lips hesitant. I felt the moment his shield bloomed, and I laced fire into the kiss, into the shield, into every inch of the basement. The inferno blazed to life, consuming everything outside Emmett’s shield.
Then the kiss broke, and the world went black.
Emmett’s voice came out of the darkness, shaky. “I told you I’d get that kiss.”
23 | EMMETT
In the chaos following the fire, it was easy to escape. Chloe was disoriented, but she could walk, and Jim leaned on me. The sprinklers activated, soaking us as we picked our way through the sodden ash piles that, moments before, had been the reanimated dead. When we reached the stairs, the vinyl flooring on the treads was warped and bubbled, but the cement underneath was still good, and we made our way up and out.
On the main floor, staff tried to corral patients, but it was a half-hearted effort at best. There were too many patients and too few staff, and the patients wanted the hell out of there. I knew how they felt. A few of the nurses shouted orders; one orderly, a big guy with a neck like a Goodyear, grabbed an old woman and tried to force her to follow a nurse’s directions. The woman bit him on the hand, and Goodyear stumbled back, screaming, the sound high-pitched and girlish over the hub over raised voices.
Chloe, Jim, and I moved into a pack of patients headed toward the closest exit. I recognized Donna, the girl from group who liked to point out my mistakes. She was helping Jonas toward the door. We passed within six inches of her; I kept my head down until we reached the doors.
When we left the hospital, the wall of November air was cool and crisp, smelling like rain and the ocean. The sun had set, and the world floated in a blue haze just this side of darkness. We found Jim’s car in the parking lot as the fire trucks were pulling up; I got Jim into the passenger seat, and Chloe sat behind him. As I opened the door to get behind the wheel, I locked eyes with Dr. Rice. She was holding a folder over her head, obviously anticipating more rain, and she froze when she saw me.
“Hey! Somebody stop him! Somebody—”
