Page 77 of Wicked Game (Wicked)

Glenn’s nostrils flared. The smell of smoke was much stronger here. “Who’s there?” he yelled.

Bang!

Something hit the floor. Hard.

“Jesus!” His heart began to thud. “Hey,” he said, more cautiously, stepping forward, a sense of panic overtaking him.

Whoosh!

The sound was as loud as wind through a tunnel.

“What the fuck?”

SLAM!

The back door?

The skin on Glenn’s nape crinkled. Fear congealed his blood. Something was wrong here, but he was too drunk to figure it out.

He blinked as he realized smoke was billowing from a back closet, the one behind the stove. He tried to step back, but slipped and smacked on his ass just as molten gold flames suddenly shot upward. Glass broke, the Irish whiskey splashing over the floor. The stainless steel changed to a blinding mirror of flame.

“Oh, God!” He tried to backpedal, crawl away, but it was too late.

Glenn’s eyes popped open as a wall of fire rushed at him. He opened his mouth to scream.

Ka-BOOM!

An explosion rocked the restaurant. Glenn was tossed against the wall.

Trapped.

Crackling, wild flames shot outward. Heat seared his skin. His lungs burned hot as hellfire.

“Gia!” he shrieked, knowing he was about to die.

His mouth was an “O” of horror as he cowered and coughed, black smoke filling his lungs, his skin curdling.

He was screaming and screaming and the last thing he remembered was the roar of the inferno burning through his ears.

Burn. Burn in hell, you bastard.

I stand in the shadows, watching as the flames climb through the roof and burst against the night sky. Golden. Glorious. Rich. Like shimmering hands reaching for the heavens, as if in supplication, consuming everything in sight, black smoke clogging the air.

The fire is perfect.

And protection.

Far in the distance sirens scream and a few cars even now are slowing, people shouting. Panic ensuing.

I want to stay but I can’t be this close. Perhaps I can sl

ip into the crowd, watch the spectacle unnoticed.

I must melt back into the shadows.

For now.

The phone rang loudly on Becca’s nightstand and she shot into a sitting position, her pulse leaping. She fumbled for the receiver and glanced at the clock as Ringo growled from the foot of the bed. One thirty-six? Who would be calling? Oh, God…

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