“Survive,” she ordered.
I watched them slit her throat, watched them shove her face to the ground, watched the wood of our kitchen floor run red with her blood. I watched them yank the amulet from her neck. I watched the light go out of her eyes, knowing that I should have been able to save her.
My magic failed her.
I failed her.
My only hope was that when our souls met in death—soon, judging from the heavy footsteps clamping down the basement stairs—she wouldn't be too disappointed in me.
“Find the kid." Dirty Beard shouted from the kitchen. “She’s in here somewhere.”
The root cellar door rattled on its hinges as the men on the other side—two? Five?—pounded it with fists and boots, a crowbar, an axe. The door was made of flimsy wood held together with rusted metal brackets; I had no idea how it was still standing.
“Damn thing’s warded,” one of the men shouted. “We can't get in."
I heard them rummage through the rest of the basement. Shelving crashed to the floor, glass jars of peaches and tomatoes and rhubarb from the garden shattering. I wanted to scream, to roar like a lioness, to crash through the door and tear them limb from limb.
But I couldn't move. I opened my mouth, and no sound came.
Whatever the men were looking for, they must've found it. Cruel laughter filled the basement like water from a broken pipe.
“Problem solved." Another bout of laughter sent a chill to my bones. Seconds later, I smelled the gasoline. Heard the metallic flick of a Zippo lighter, and knew with utter certainty that—wards or not—this was the end.
My pants were warm with piss. I didn't even have the strength to close my eyes.
The man tossed the lighter, then bolted up the stairs with the others. A wall of bright orange light rose up on the other side of the door, crackling as it took its first taste of the old, damp wood.
Curls of smoke licked along the bottom and sides of the door, but the flames didn't penetrate. The root cellar remained cool.
Footsteps thumped overhead again, and a guy not much older than me crouched down, suddenly noticing the gap in the floor.
“I can see her!” He shouted, leaning close to glare at me. His eyes were the color of spring grass, set off by a mop of dark red hair.
The sight shattered the last beating part of my heart.
“The fire isn’t working,” he snapped. “She must be protected.” Something like remorse flickered in his eyes, but when his father spoke again, that look was quickly replaced with anger. With rage.
“Handle it,” Dirty Beard said.
The boy shoved his fingers through the gap—fingers that had once touched me so sweetly, so tenderly—but he couldn’t get any closer.
Tears tracked my cheeks, but I didn't move, didn't back away. They couldn't kill me with fire, couldn't break down the door, but now I wanted to die. I couldn't imagine a life without Calla. Where ever she was going, I wanted to follow. I stretched up on my tiptoes, willing those desperate fingers to reach in, close around my throat, and crush my wind pipe.
But no matter how hard I stretched, no matter how badly he wanted to hurt me, the boy couldn't get to me.
"I can’t,” he told the man.
Boots stomped across the kitchen. Through the gap in the floor, Dirty Beard glared at me, his eyes full of a deep hatred I didn't think was possible for one human being to feel toward another.
I’d never met him before.
I wished I had. Maybe I could’ve changed his mind.
"Last time I expect a boy to do a man's job.” He cuffed his son on the back of his head. By now smoke had clawed its way up the basement stairs, chased by the angry fire, and the man coughed. “Leave her, fool boy. Unless you want to burn."
For a moment the rage in the kid’s face turned to fear, then sadness. But when he caught me staring, pleading, the mask of rage reappeared.
He hissed at me through gritted teeth. ”I know your face, witch.”
