Page 140 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

I shoot the bastard, then the gas tank.

The explosion thrusts me backward into the building and bushes, my rifle flying in a separate direction.

Wrecked.

The sky topples, crystal branches pulsing in anger, icicles plummeting like daggers.

Crushed.

My blood chills in my veins. Shivers cascade down my spine, racking through my limbs. Fingers aching.

Beaten.

And the monstrous beast?

Ferocity drips off him like the melting snow.

Vicious and indomitable.

He’s still coming for me.

Hunted.

His blurred silhouette dashes toward me as the clouds dance. The dirty white ground, glimmering trees, and wavy air all quiver around me.

I’m prey.

I pluck out the pistol stowed in my waistband. My hand trembles as I flip the safety off and lift it from my slumped and flattened frame.

My eyes play tricks on me. The snow-capped trees and blazing fires andhaunted schoolyard whirl around him.

I can’t shoot that man.

His resolute gaze shackles me.

Captured.

Harsh, jagged breaths. Sharp and heavy.

Warm, roaring waves break over me—no, that can’t be. I’m confused.

It’s winter. Freezing. Ohio.

A whistling breeze and blood flow assault my hearing.

His lips move, but my ears won’t cooperate. I don’t know what he’s saying. He gently lowers my gun, and the brush of his fingertips burns like acid against my frigid skin. My head shakes vehemently in protest.

“I’ve got you, baby.” His gritty, sandpaper rasp curls around me likea ripple in a pond.

“No,” I mutter. The scents of sulfur and winter, blood and death choke me so my objection swirls in with the smoke.

He ignores me, scooping me into his arms and saddling me around him like he’s strapping on one of those front-wearing infant papooses. His lips caper against my matted hair. “You’re okay, Little Storm. Hold tight while I get you out of here.”

Little Storm. Wells?

“You came,” I cry into the warmth of his neck, my eyes vibrating beneath the lids as he hoists and jostles my limp form—a hunk of flesh and bones and wonky muscles spurning proper function.

My vision may be hazy, but I’m drunk on the husk of his voice and the cushion of his arms.

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