Page 137 of Stealing Embers

“Emberly,” Ash hisses. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out what—yikes!”

Something flies at my head and I hit the floor.

Ash drops down beside me a nanosecond later. Throwing her arms over her head, she curls into a ball.

“Kill it!” she screams.

“Did you see what it was?” I yell back. Whatever it is, it’s flying or bouncing around the room, shoving books off our desks, lotion off our nightstands, and knocking into the walls and ceiling like an over-caffeinated pinball.

“It’s some sort of demon squirrel.”

“That’s a thing?”

“I have no idea. We didn’t knowyouwere a thing until you showed up. Maybe demon squirrels are next.”

“Seriously, Ash?” I lob a glare at her.

With her arms over her head and her legs tucked, she still manages a small shrug and a sheepish grin.

“I am not a demon,” a high-pitched voice complains from my bed.

Ash’s eyes grow to the size of saucers and I’m sure mine have done the same.

“Or a squirrel. I find the fact that you thought either of those things highly offensive.”

Peeling ourselves off the floor, Ash and I shuffle to our knees and peek over the side of the bed.

Balanced on its back feet on top of my pillow is . . . a flying squirrel.

The creature taps its tiny foot.

Ash and I exchange twin looks of disbelief before drawing our eyes back to the furry, five-inch being.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?” it squeaks. Its raised arms show off the fur-covered, parachute-like membranes connected from wrist to ankle. “Anyone can see I’m not a rodent or a demon. Insulting, is what that comment was.”

“Am I still asleep?” Ash asks. “Because that would explain quite a bit.”

“But . . . youarea squirrel,” I insist.

It shakes its tiny fist in the air. If it had a complexion, I imagine it would be turning red right about now.

“Tell me, can a squirrel do this?”

The little guy throws his arms down and shoots into the air. Gold glitter-filled sparks follow in his wake as he zips around the air above our heads.

“Is that squirrel shooting glitter out of its butt?” Ash leans over to ask.

“I think so.”

It lands back on my pillow and crosses its arms. “You see? Not a squirrel.”

“Or maybe you’re just a squirrel that farts glitter . . . and talks.”

I snort a laugh at Ash’s response. We’re both still on our knees on the hard floor, staring at the creature who is definitely not a typical squirrel, but looks like one.

The little creature scrunches his tiny face in displeasure.

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