Page 26 of Sweet Nightmare

After what may be the longest ninety seconds of my life, Ember’s fire finally goes out as quickly and efficiently as it started. One second, she’s on fire, and then the next, she isn’t.

She is, however, shivering, naked, and more than a little out of it, if her vacant stare is any reflection of her state of mind. Her fire burned so hot it turned everything to ash but her actual hair and body. Even her piercings melted away in the flames, turning into hot piles of gold and silver on the hallway floor beside her.

As she drops to the ground, my uncle Carter turns away immediately, calling for a blanket even as he moves to block her from view with his body. She’s kneeling, and her arms are wrapped around herself, covering almost everything, but she’s still so out of it that leaving her like this for even a moment feels wrong.

Following my uncle’s lead, I move closer to Ember, too, blocking as much of her from view as I can.

But Jude isn’t waiting for a blanket. Instead, he rips off his partially burned shirt and pulls it over her head. It’s got several coin-size holes in it, but the size difference between them is so huge that it dwarfs her, covering everything important and then some.

Then he leans down like he’s going to help her up, but I can see the singed skin on his hands and know he must be in absolute agony.

So I beat him to it, bending down and wrapping an arm around Ember’s shoulders as I ease her to her feet. “You’re okay,” I whisper softly in her ear. “You’re just fine.”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I can still see the flames burning deep inside of them. But then she blinks, and the fire and the fogginess are gone.

Eva comes forward, carrying the blanket Uncle Carter called for. Her normally rosy-brown complexion has turned ashen, and she looks as shaken as I feel.

“Are you okay?” she murmurs to me as she waits for my uncle to take the blanket from her.

I nod as Ember shakes her head and whispers, “You should check on Jude,” in a voice gone gravelly from screaming.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, but he’s swaying a little on his feet, and nothing about him looks fine—especially not his hands, which are red and blistered in some places and look charred in others.

“You’re not fine,” Uncle Carter says, scanning the crowd until his gaze meets mine. “Clementine, take him to the healer, please.”

Then he wraps the blanket around Jude’s shoulders.

His words have Eva’s brown eyes going wide and darting between us. I know she’s waiting for me to argue, but after everything that’s happened today, I’ve got no fight left in me. Besides, just because I’m taking Jude to Aunt Claudia’s office doesn’t mean I have to stick around and hold his hand—figuratively speaking.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, because what else am I supposed to say?

My roommate looks like she wants to argue, but before she can figure out how to respond, my uncle turns to her.

“Eva, please escort Ember back to her room so she can change clothes. Everyone else, get to class, please. The show’s over.”

And just like that, we have our assignments. I just hope this one goes better than the last…

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THAT’S JUST

F.I.N.E. BY ME

I turn to Jude, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with him now that the crisis has passed. Especially since the only thing covering his naked torso is the blanket Uncle Carter draped over him, letting his chiseled chest peek out. We stare at each other for a moment before I finally clear my throat and ask, “Do you think you can make it to the healer?”

“I’m fine,” he says again.

I roll my eyes as I brush past him. “There’s a really old Aerosmith song called ‘F.I.N.E.’ You know what they say it stands for?”

“Fabulous, Intelligent, Noble, and Endearing?” His eyes dare me to contradict him.

I won’t give him the satisfaction. “Your knowledge of old music is appalling.”

“Oh, I know the song,” he tells me. “I just don’t agree that I’m insecure or emotional.”

He’s right. Jude is a guy who contains multitudes, but insecurity definitely isn’t one of those multitudes. Even as a child—lost, broken, devastated—he knew who he was. And what he wanted. Or, to be more specific, what he didn’t want. As far as I can tell, none of that has changed in the ensuing years.

I notice he doesn’t say anything about the fucked-up or the neurotic parts of the acronym. Then again, what can he say? He’s pretty much the poster child for both and has been for as long as I’ve known him.

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