*CHAPTER 7*
No. Not Fergus.
Flames rippled around its body, and there was a pang in my chest. All of that hard work...gone. I watched on in horrified, speechless shock as Malcolm prowled around me to get a better look at the creature that had collapsed onto the pavement, unmoving.
I should have been terrified. I knew I should have been. This person had just created fire with his fingertips. I'd seen him burn that monster alive right in front of me. But, at that moment I wasn't. Later, I'd probably chalk it up to a mixture of adrenaline and shock.
Because standing in the center of my driveway, covered in dirt and leaves, staring at the blazing wreckage of my car, all I felt was rage.
"Fergus," I finally managed to croak, hot spikes of angry tears pricking at the corner of my eyes. "Fergus, no! No, no, no!"
Malcolm turned to me, confusion marring his face that shone golden in the light of my dying car, "My name's not..." He trailed off. A spark of recognition lit his face as he realized where I was looking and glanced between me and my car, "Ah."
"What have you done?" I turned to him, voice building to a shout, "You killed him!"
"You almost got murdered a few moments ago and you're worried about your dumpy car?
"Dumpy. Car." I intoned, rage rendering me speechless. "Dumpy car?" Alright, it was a little dumpy. Dumpy to the point I had to worry about it being taken away if I parked too close to a dumpster on trash day. I'd be damned though if I let anyone call it dumpy but me. "How dare you?"
Distantly, I knew I was being a little unreasonable at that moment. That I should be more concerned that there had been a literal monster-like creature attacking me not five minutes before. But after everything that had happened that day, my emotions were shredded.
And that car was—had been, I corrected, tears struggling to break free—important to me. It was the first thing I'd been able to buy on my own. Not only that, it was my only transportation to work, the only way I was able to pay the bills stacking up. To finish paying for college, my first out of this hopeless situation I'd been in.
Malcolm just waved a placating hand at me, eyeing the destruction of my property with a slight grimace, "Look, calm down,"
I chose to ignore that, rounding on him, another hot tear dripping onto my cheek, "You're going to pay me for every cent of it you burned up."
"Fine," he gritted through his teeth, disdain dripping from every pore, "What was it worth? Fifty dollars?"
"Fifty dollars?" I repeated. I hadn't thought I could get any angrier, but I did, "Is that supposed to be funny?"
"You can't honestly tell me you think it's worth much more than that," He said, eyeing the rusting remains of my poor car, "In fact, you should pay me for the public service of getting that rotting monstrosity off the road."
My jaw dropped, up and down at a loss for words, like a fish out of water.
I took a step forward, until we were nearly chest to chest, glaring up at him. He was much taller than my five-foot-two inches, and I had to crane my neck to look into his face. With an angry finger aimed towards his chest, I jabbed it into him with each word to emphasize my point, "You're not getting out of paying you brute."
His lips parted to respond but he didn't get the chance because another burst of light exploded to our left, knocking me off my feet and sending him reeling. I couldn't stop the scream that burst from me as my body was tossed across the pavement like a rag doll. I landed on my back, head cracking into the curb with a burst of pain that sent sparks of color and stars across my vision.
Something strange happened. Like an egg breaking, something burst open in my chest. Cracked. Something fizzing and hot bubbled beneath my skin, spreading through every inch of my body. It increased in heat to the point it was nearly unbearable and I gasped at the intensity of it all.
And just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
Lying in my driveway, I blinked up at the stars overhead in shock. Heat flared to life from somewhere to my right and I could only imagine that Malcolm was shooting fire from his fingertips again. I rolled on the pavement, coughing up dust and debris, shattered glass crunching under my skin as I fought to catch my breath. My skin felt flushed and too sensitive everywhere it rubbed against my clothing. Malcolm's dark figure prowled around the road, searching for the source of the explosion, fire drenching his fingertips.
But there was nothing.
With my body shaking like jello, I maneuvered myself into a sitting position.
With shaking hands, I brought my fingers to the spot on the back of my head that had hit the pavement and they came away bloody. Something itched uncomfortably at the back of my mind. A muffled continuous buzzing that steadily increased in pressure, becoming louder by the second. Like a wasp nest had broken in my skull.
"My head feels funny," I said, not really sure who I was talking to. From the awkward angle I was at on the ground I saw Malcolm's leather-clad figure turn in my direction. That was before the buzzing grew louder and everything went black.
I woke up on a couch that wasn't mine, in a room I didn't recognize. A sharp throbbing pain from the back of my head was the first thing I noticed. The worst migraine I'd ever had. Like someone was pounding against my skull with a hammer. I groaned, rubbing a hand tiredly against my eyes. My mouth was dry, tongue like gluey sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
The lilting of voices had me blinking my eyes open. The words were muffled, fuzzy at first like they were coming from behind the glass, and slowly became clearer as I forced my eyes open.
"She's waking up now," a woman's voice murmured from somewhere to my left.
I blearily forced myself to open my eyes. The lights were dim, emanating from a single bulb in a nearby table lamp. The walls were done up in shades of white and gray, and furniture was comprised entirely of white burnished wood. I was tucked into a thick white quilt in the same crumbled clothes I'd been wearing earlier that night.
And three people stood over me, studying me. I had to fight back the urge to jerk away. I sat up in a rush and immediately regretted it. Blood drained from my head making me dizzy and I swayed. Black spots swam in my vision. And the pain in my head exploded.
"Careful, there." The voice belonged to a bearded, bespectacled man in a tweed coat. His voice was accented, British probably. He looked to be about in his mid-forties, laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. He had a caring sort of smile which made the tightness in my chest ease a bit.
The woman who'd spoken earlier eased herself onto the edge of the couch on the narrow space beside me, gently jostling the cushions. "How are you feeling sweetie? Malcolm says you hit your head pretty hard." Unlike the man, her voice wasn't accented, her tone and eyes gentle as she studied me, gaze easing from the top of my head to slowly focus on my face. Like the man, she had a kind smile.
Had I hit my head? No memory came to mind. There was a sore spot along my hairline, and when I brushed it with my fingers, it was tender enough to make me wince, sucking in a breath. Everything was sore and foggy—my last few bits of memory were hidden behind a filmy layer. Like trying to look through frosted glass.
"Where am I?" My voice was raspy and I tried to clear my throat. The woman reached over toward the bedside table, handing me a glass of water. I took it gratefully, the cold water incredible as it went down my dry throat.
The man and woman shared a look as if trying to decide on how to respond. A flicker of movement behind their shoulders drew my eye. A golden face. I vaguely recognized the tall figure clothed in black leather, with tears in his shirt and pants, and smoke marks in black streaks across his tan skin. Anger, hot and swift, shot through me as I remembered that haughty look on his face. It was the blond idiot from outside my house.