Page 67 of A Sin So Pure

I forgo the warped metal door, opting to climb through the blown-out window to its left. Glass and charred debris crunch under my boots as I help Imogen over the edge.

It’s quiet inside, like the soul of the building has left its body. The only sounds are the small crackles of rubble as it cools, the final fissures of the blaze taking shape. I expect rage to bubbleup from my gut, but it doesn’t. I’m the same as the warehouse: a shell with a gaping emptiness inside.

What was once red-toned brick is now black. All the vibrancy that lived here is charred and burned andruined.

A third pair of footsteps join ours.

“It’s me,” Josie calls from behind us. She comes to a stop at our side, hands on her hips and murmuring a curse.

Then I hear a groan.

My head whips from side to side, trying to locate the sound. But there’s nothing but burned rubble.

“Did you two hear that?” I say.

“What?” Imogen asks.

I hear it again, low and aching.

“That,” I say, stepping deeper into the building. “There’s someone still here.”

“Not possible. Hattie got everyone out that was on shift,” Josie says, but panic is laced through her tone.

The moans are louder now, and Imogen gasps, confirming I’m not alone in hearing them. The three of us curse, following the sound.

“Help me,” the person cries. “Please.”

The air is thicker, still smoky and warm, the deeper into the building we go, but we push through. I spin in place, the moans right next to me, but there’s no one in sight.

And then I see it. The air wavering, a slight shimmer within the dust and smoke that curl around us. The Seelie illusion breaks, and where a pile of burned boxes once stood, a man lies, red and bloodied burns marring half of his body. Beyond the burns, recognition flares?—

“Jamison?” I say, dropping to his side while Josie protectively shoves Imogen behind her.

“Shit! Is he okay?” Imogen squeaks.

My magic perks to life at the sight of him, tickling my fingertips under my gloves.

“This is because of you,” he groans through barely parted lips.

Now that I’m closer, I can see his skin making an attempt to stitch itself back together. But it’s far too slow to quell the bleeding. Even the strongest healer would need help with wounds this extensive.

“I told him no,” Jamison moans. “He didn’t like that.”

I glare into Jamison’s one good eye; I recognize the fear shining there.

This was a challenge.

A lump forms in my throat as I scan the rest of the room, acutely aware of our surroundings. My gun is out of its holster before I know it.

“He said you don’t get it both ways. You can’t keep prete?—”

“Nora, what are you?—”

Imogen’s yelp echoes in the space alongside the single shot to Jamison’s head. His body slumps against the rubble, blessedly still.

“Why did you do that?” Imogen screeches.

“He was going to die anyway. Think of it as a mercy.” My nose twitches, the smoky air starting to tickle my sinuses. “We should leave. We’re probably being watched.”

---