Page 5 of Red Ruin

His soul is somewhere in those flames.

I grit my teeth.

I won’t be able to sense—or fix—what’s going on with him until I stretch my own soul into the fire.

Still a few steps away, I cautiously extend a few silks to meet him. My energy blooms outward, turning me into a blue anemone in the middle of the burning street.

Working by feel rather than sight, I coax a wisp of his soul out of the flames.

Instinctively, his silk curls around mine.

Air hisses between my teeth.

The red-hot spark of instant connection double-clicks the box confirming that we’re a close-to-perfect match.

As if I need more reasons to rescue the man in the smoke.

Where I sweat, my skin prickles with strain.

Focusing past the sensation of burning alive, I finally get a visual on the hair-thin fibers of his silks.

They glow hot pink, tangled under his skin and writhing painfully within his hellfire.

They’re fuckingwrecked.

Melted, knotted, cut-off, charred—and that’s just what I’m feeling on a superficial scan. If his silks can’t move around, he can’t use his powers freely.

Or without pain.

Even before I deepen our mental connection to guide him, I feel like a candle being blow-torched on one end and shredded on the other.

“You’re not going to burn me, are you, Sentinel?” I ask as I tiptoe closer.

He doesn’t answer, but one curious silk stretches toward me with a hook, like a tilt in its head. It’s long and pink with only a little bit of char.

It’s probably the least-damaged, last sane thread this guy has left.

He needs help.

He needsme.

It’s so simple, so primal, I forget all my bullshit.

I don’t have to think when I’m working. After years of practical battle experience, guiding energies is all instinct and mental-muscle memory.

Guide silks are more delicate than a Sentinel’s. When I’m not straining, mine are so subtle they barely glow. Now, I’m so focused that thousands bloom around me, turning my aura neon blue in their rush to reach the Sentinel who’s suffering.

Our souls meet.

I full-body flinch.

The Sentinel burns like a hot drill, burrowing into my teeth. It’s the kind of pain that gnaws down your spine and throws you back against the dentist chair in a cold and helpless sweat.

My stupid soul doesn’t give afuckabout the pain.

It drives into that searing, clenching, icy-hot sting, desperate to get underneath the Sentinel’s skin and stop the feeling at the source.

His silks curl around mine like ferns.

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