October 12

Chaz:

Flames sizzled and flickered, the bathroom door buckled and groaned. A bitter stillness hung in Isabelle’s bedroom as I focused on the door; heat radiated in waves, embers burning, following the wood grain, popping in concentric patterns. Any second now, the fire could spread into the walls and the whole room could burst into flame. I still wasn’t sure, but it was possible that the peron I loved more than any other was trapped inside.

Isabelle.

The perfect, innocent child that I always wished had been mine.

I froze in front of the bathroom door, surrounded by a graveyard of children, their singed bodies an Escher puzzle of death. Guilt settled in my throat, like I had swallowed a mouthful of ash. My fault. All my fault.

And beneath it all, I heard a voice hissing, a dark taunting undercurrent, a voice I instantly recognized.

You can’t save your niece. You’re already too late.

“Isabelle!” I cried, ignoring my inner demon. I leaned toward the door, tried to figure out what to do. “Isabelle, are you in there?”

My mind filled with doubt. Then a voice echoed mine; pitifully weak, it strained through the whipping crackle and the snarling fire. I almost didn’t hear it.

“Uncle Chaz! Help, the fire—”

The door buckled toward me and smoke burned my eyes.

Just then an automatic fire extinguisher snapped on, a filmy foam that covered everything in the room. It slid over my skin, stung when it hit my eyes. I blinked it away. Liquid light isn’t like regular fire. It can’t be quenched like this. It feeds off the electrical impulses that flow through humans and animals, and right now it was feasting on something. A body had to be on the other side of the door, a body that, hopefully, was still alive.

“The beacon protectors,” a voice whispered behind me. I turned and saw Pete leaning against the wall, his legs trembling. He pointed to the dead children on the floor. “They catches the liquid light.”

I cursed under my breath. How had we missed this? No one at Fresh Start had tested the BPs with liquid light; we never anticipated that anyone would use it on kids. I reached down and snapped a collar off the nearest child, switched it on, then tossed it to a far corner. Almost instantly a thin line of snarling fire darted away from the bathroom door, zapped into the collar and stayed there.

Pete and Russ were both beside me then, struggling to stand, peeling the collars off the dead children, turning them on and hastily flinging them away. Each time, a portion of the liquid light shot out hungrily, a bleeding trail of fire and light that latched onto a collar, then zapped inside, instantly imprisoned.

The pressure on the door was lessening. It sagged on weary hinges now, flames reduced to fading embers.

“Move away from the door!” I yelled to whoever was on the other side.

“Uncle Chaz, wait—”

I heard a scuffling, thought I heard another little girl crying, “No, I can’t, I’m afraid.”

Then Isabelle spoke again, her brave voice quivering, “Okay, we moved.”

“Cover your face,” I said, then I grabbed a chair, swung it against the door. It cracked down the middle, shivered and splintered, a shower of sparks and firefly light. My shoulders and hands burned from the heat.

Let them be okay, please let them be okay, I pleaded, afraid to see who was on the other side, grateful that at least Isabelle sounded safe.

Another swing. Broken chair against broken door. Hinges snapped. Beside me Russ began to pull the wood away with his bare hands; he yanked half the door back and tossed it behind us, a smoldering birthday-party memento.

“Isabelle, baby,” he said, his voice a hoarse whispering growl. Tears coursed his face, ran between the veil of dusky ash and silky foam.

My brother spent so much of his life hiding his emotions that I was shocked by the raw panic I saw in his shaking hands. This wasn’t the after-effects of liquid light. It was the combination of love and fear, that deep well of courage we draw from when we have to win the battle. It was the first time I realized how much he loved his daughter.

We could see inside the small room then, all three of us. Half the door had been ripped off, the other half was crumbling and charred.

Isabelle stood against a far wall. Wide-eyed and scared, but alive.

She held hands with another little girl, a delicate red-haired child with almost elfish features. Both of them were safe, unharmed.

Then I saw the body on the floor, lying facedown, arms outstretched and blackened. Angelique. Somehow she had saved the girls, had put herself in between them and the liquid light. Her body must have absorbed the electric fire; the current must have run up one of her arms and then back down the other, a continuous circuit.

Isabelle must have pulled her away from the door just a moment ago. I could see the palms of my niece’s hands now, blackened by the lingering fire.

I let Russ shoulder his way through the door first, let him scoop his daughter into his trembling arms. Pete staggered into the room next and carried out the little redhead. After they had both made their way out, I went inside, knelt down beside the Newbie that I had vowed to protect, pressed my fingers against the jugular vein in her neck, praying for a heartbeat, some lingering sign of life.

A faint pulse. Or maybe it was just my own heartbeat that I felt.

“Angelique.”

I gently turned her body over, winced when her muscles hung limp. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

“Angelique.” I cupped her face in my hand. “Wake up. Focus.”

The mugs were in the house now, charging up the stairs, heavy voices barking orders. In a few minutes a VR station would be set up and the rest of the world would watch as the investigation began. We would be judged before any evidence was even gathered.

Angelique. Don’t jump. Stay.

Her eyes fluttered, then her mouth opened and she sucked in a deep breath, coughed black ash from her lungs. She shuddered and I turned her on her side. She coughed again.

Angelique. Live, please.

She braced one hand on the floor, lifted her head and looked through the door into the bedroom. I followed her gaze and saw the labyrinth of dead children, arms and legs twisted. Black death everywhere.

Tears welled in her eyes.

With an expression of horror, she glanced down at her hands, scorched from the liquid light. It looked like she was wearing black evening gloves that went up to her elbows. “What happened?” She turned back and stared at the makeshift cemetery that used to be Isabelle’s bedroom. “Who would do this?”

Obviously she didn’t remember risking her life to save my niece, didn’t know that she had just crossed over into the exalted territory of hero.

“Angelique,” I said, trying to calm her. “Recognize. I’m your Babysitter—”

“Babysitter?” She cocked her head, facing me now. “But, but…I’m not a Newbie—”

“Focus.” She didn’t even remember who she was. “Recognize—”

“I’m not a Newbie—I’m a lawyer. I’ve got a case this afternoon. I’ve got to get out of here—”

But I didn’t have time to break through the roadblocks her brain was putting up, the natural defense mechanism Fresh Start installed to prevent her circuits from getting fried in a situation like this. A mug suddenly materialized in the doorway behind us, a hulking silhouette against the bright lights that now swept through the bedroom.

“Just hold on there, both of ya. Stay right where ya are.” His face was invisible, masked in black shadow, but I recognized him immediately. Lieutenant Skellar.

“You know the drill, Domingue,” he said. “Come on, hands out and don’t try nothin’ stupid. As far as I’m concerned, your Babysitter status is gone.”