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She caught sight of the street sign. Chautauga Court.
“Shit,” she whispered.
Michael.
CHAPTER 3
Michael stopped at the tree line and stared. Chris and Hunter were breathing hard beside him.
Five houses sat around the court. All blazed with fire—except the Merrick house, where no flames were visible, but smoke seemed to seep through the roof. At the others, smoke poured through roofs and flames shot high against the sky. Discordant smoke detectors screeched from each. The sirens coming up from Magothy Beach Road were louder.
Compared to the others, the Merrick house sat like an afterthought in the midst of this inferno. No motion, complete darkness.
Michael couldn’t remember if he’d turned on a light.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Smoke burned his already abused lungs, but he couldn’t cough. The heat was blistering, even from this distance.
His brain was frozen on his thought from fifteen minutes ago, when he’d been standing right here with Hunter.
His brothers were safer inside the house, asleep and oblivious.
But the Merrick house wasn’t actively burning. Good? Or very bad?
Michael swept his eyes along the tree line behind the houses, looking for any sign of his brothers.
“Gabriel!” he yelled, sending power into the ground, seeking . . . anything. “Nick!”
Nothing.
He tried again, louder, spinning in a circle, as if his brothers would come sprinting out of the woods with a crazy story about what had happened.
Nothing.
Michael only spotted two people: the Hensons. They stood in the backyard next door, silhouetted by the flames. The woman clutched at her husband—whether in panic or from injury, Michael couldn’t tell. They were an older couple with a yellow lab and too many grandkids to keep track of. Mrs. Henson had dropped off dinners almost every night for a month after Michael’s parents had died. Michael mowed their lawn every week through the summer and plowed their driveway in the winter.
Flames poured through their upstairs windows. Their siding was buckling from the heat. Mrs. Henson was clutching at her husband in the backyard and screaming for Charlie.
Their dog. Trapped.
“Our house is smoking,” said Hunter. His voice was shaking. “I can’t sense anyone inside.”
Michael looked at him. That statement could mean two things.
“Where are they?” said Chris. At some point he’d grabbed Michael’s arm. His breath was shaking, his eyes a little too wide. The earlier indignant fury was gone from his expression, and now he just looked young. And frightened.
In a flash, Michael remembered Chris five years ago, flames reflected in his eyes exactly like this. Then, Michael had dragged his youngest brother out of a burning house much like this one. Chris had been choking, gasping for air.
Then, he’d been punching Michael, crying, yelling, his voice breaking. “Go get them! Get them!”
Their parents.
Red and white lights strobed between the houses, underscored by the sound of hydraulic brakes and sirens cutting out. The sound should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t.
Michael didn’t want to believe Calla was behind this—but five houses. Five points on a pentagram—a symbol typically used to call the Guides. She wanted a war. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
Or it might not be Calla at all. It might be an attack.
He immediately regretted yelling for his brothers. “Hide in the woods,” Michael said. “Now.”
