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But if Sam had done this…if Sam had made all this happen…then there was no one to be mad at but himself.
He took in all the breath he could manage, jumped to his feet, and slammed against the door all in one frantic motion.
Nothing.
And slammed again.
Nothing.
And again, and he had to breathe now, he had to, but the smoke was everywhere, in his nose, his eyes, blinding him. Again and the door opened and he fell in and hit the floor, facedown.
The smoke trapped in the room erupted into the hallway, exploded out like a lion escaping its cage. For a few seconds there was a layer of breathable air at floor level and Sam took in a breath. He had to fight to keep from coughing it back out. If he did that, he was going to die, he knew it.
And for just a second it was partly clear in the apartment. Like a break in the clouds that gives you a little tease of clear blue sky before drawing the dark curtain once more.
The kid was on the floor, gagging, coughing, just a little kid, a girl, maybe five at most.
“I’m here,” Sam said in his strangled voice.
He must have looked terrifying. A big shape wreathed in smoke, face covered, black soot in his hair, smearing his skin.
He must have looked like a monster. That was the only explanation. Because the little girl, the terrified, panicky little girl, raised both of her hands, palms out, and from those chubby little hands came a blast, an explosion, jets of pure flame.
Flame. Shooting out of her tiny hands.
Flame!
Aimed at him.
The blast narrowly missed Sam. It passed his head with a whoosh and hit the wall behind him. It was like napalm, jellied gasoline, liquid fire that stuck to the wall where it hit and burned with mad intensity.
For a second he could only stare, frozen in amazement.
Insane.
Impossible.
The little girl cried out in terror and raised her hands again. This time she wouldn’t miss.
This time she would kill him.
Not thinking, just reacting, Sam extended his arm, palm out. There was a flash of light, bright as an exploding star.
The kid fell on her back.
Sam crawled to her, shaking, stomach clenched, wanting to scream, thinking, no, no, no, no.
He scooped the kid into his arms, afraid she would wake up, and afraid that she wouldn’t. He stood up.
The wall to his right fell in with a sound like ripping cardboard. Plaster was falling away, revealing the wall’s structure, the lathe boards and two-by-fours. The fire was inside the wall.
A blast of heat, like opening an oven, staggered Sam. Astrid had said it wasn’t the fire that killed you. Well, she hadn’t seen this fire, or guessed that a little kid could shoot flame from her hands.
Sam held the child in his arms. Fire to his back and to his right, crisping his eyelashes, baking his flesh.
A window straight ahead.
He stumbled forward. He dropped the kid like a sack of dirt and slammed the window up with both hands. Smoke roiled around him, the fire chasing it toward this fresh source of oxygen.
