The lighter hit the floor.
There wasn't a dramatic pause. There was no slow-motion cinematic moment where I could regret my choices. Physics just did its job, fast and violent.
The spark met the fumes, and the air itself seemed to shatter.
WHUMP.
A wall of blue-orange flame erupted from the floorboards, expanding outward with a roar that sounded like a jet engine taking off inside a closet. The concussion knocked me backward, slamming my shoulders into the wall. The heat was instant—a physical slap that singed the hair off my arms and curled my eyelashes.
"Lily, stay down!" I screamed, but I couldn't even hear my own voice over the inferno.
Marcus didn't stop. He was insane.
Most people see a wall of fire and instinctively recoil. It’s hardwired into our DNA: Fire bad. Run away. But Marcus wasn't running on logic anymore. He was running on a fuel mixture of grief and hatred that burned hotter than the turpentine.
He charged right through the flames.
The fire licked up the legs of his bulky white suit. The synthetic "snow" coating—probably cotton and latex—caught immediately. He looked like a burning wicker man, a demon wreathed in smoke and chemical stench, swinging a fireman's axe blindly through the smoke.
Whoosh.
The axe head whistled past my ear, burying itself deep in the plaster of the wall where my head had been a second ago. Sparks showered down.
I scrambled to the side, slipping on the dry section of the floor, coughing as the acrid black smoke filled my lungs. The room was turning into an oven. The temperature spiked from freezing to boiling in a heartbeat.
"You think this saves you?" Marcus roared. His voice was muffled, gargled. The mask was starting to deform. "You burn everything you touch, Elias!"
He yanked the axe free, tearing a chunk of drywall with it. He turned toward me, the flames dancing on his shoulders.
I didn't have a weapon. The paring knife was gone. The element of surprise was gone. All I had was adrenaline and the terrified knowledge that my daughter was huddled under a tarp five feet away from a man who wanted to chop us into kindling.
He swung again. A horizontal slash meant to gut me.
I ducked, dropping to my knees. The blade shattered a jar of brushes on the shelf behind me.
I lunged forward, driving my shoulder into his midsection. It was like tackling a refrigerator. He barely budged, but the impact knocked him off balance just enough. We crashed onto the floor, rolling into a puddle of burning mineral spirits.
The pain was immediate. The heat seared through my jeans, biting my skin. But Marcus had it worse. He was wearing a suit of insulation and plastic.
And it was melting.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.