Mari Mancusi - Scorched

That’s it! The idea struck him like a lightning bolt. If he could get Grandpa to help him, maybe their combined spark could complete the push. He didn’t know if the old man could focus past his injuries, but he had no other options and they were running out of time.

To me! he sent out. I need as much spark as you can spare!

He watched, praying for some reaction, some clue to tell him Grandpa had heard him and would obey. For a split second, he thought he saw something in the man’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, he had no time to send again. He had to hope for the best.

Pushing past the pain in his skull, he closed his eyes one more time. Drawing his energy into a tiny, bright white ball and thrusting it as hard as he could.

You’ve got the wrong guy. Walk away now. The cops are almost here.

He fell back, seeing stars, unable, for a moment, to even move. His legs and arms were Jell-O and his stomach swam with nausea. Still he watched, waiting. Praying. They’d almost reached the van. If this hadn’t worked, it was all over. It was too late to try again.

For a moment, he saw no sign. Then one of them looked up.

“I don’t think we have the right guy,” he said.

“What?” the leader lashed at him. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s the right guy.”

“No,” his buddy agreed, looking at Grandpa, his face awash with confusion. “I don’t think it is.”

“Do you hear sirens?” added the third man. “I think the cops are on their way.”

The leader’s face twisted in rage. “You morons. What’s wrong with you? There’re no sirens. And no cops either. Now get him the hell in the van and let’s get out of here.”

But the men had already released Grandpa, the old man collapsing unceremoniously down onto the pavement. They looked at one another, fear clear in their faces, then rushed to the van, jumping in and closing the doors behind them. A moment later the engine roared to life.

“What are you doing?” screamed the leader. “Get back out here! Get him in the van!”

But his cries were for nothing. And the vehicle soon sped away. Connor let out a silent cheer. Now it was one on one. Even in his weakened condition, he liked those odds. Too bad his gun was back in the car—that would have made it almost easy.

“Aw hell,” the leader was growling, watching the van disappear around a corner. Then he turned back to Grandpa. “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pistol. “Guess I have no choice now.”

This was it! Connor dove in, throwing himself on top of the man. The gun went off with a loud bang and for a split second Connor thought the guy had missed, that the bullet had rang out into thin air. But then he felt a warmness soak his arm, followed by a stabbing pain. No such luck.

But he had no time to consider the extent of his wound. Instead, using his good arm, he managed to wrestle the gun from the mercenary’s grip, tossing it away. Then he clamped his fingers around the man’s neck, squeezing as hard as he could. The man struggled, kicking and gasping, but Connor had him well pinned.

“This is for Trinity!” he growled, digging his thumbs into the man’s sunken flesh. “This is for my dad!” He dug in harder, finding himself oddly enjoying the terrified bulge in the man’s eyes.

“Connor, stop! You’re going to kill him!”

He felt a hand grab his injured arm and he screamed in agony as the pain exploded all over again. But the jolt was enough to break the spell. He loosened his grip, looking up to see Trinity’s grandfather looming above him, a scared but determined look on his wrinkled face.

“Come on,” he hissed. “We have to get out of here.”

“Wait,” Connor said, his soldier training conquering his raging emotions. “I need to get information from him first.” Ignoring his throbbing head, he plunged into the unconscious man’s mind, gasping at what he found inside.

It was ugly—black and decrepit and rank. Smelling of death and decay. The Dracken had evidently chosen their mercenaries well. There was no pity in this man, no sense of humanity. If he had ever lived and loved and hoped and dreamed, all of that had died out a long time ago.

The ugliness made Connor’s stomach turn, but still he pressed on, crawling through the darkness until he finally reached the small nugget of information he needed. He yanked hard, grabbing it and securing it into his own consciousness. Only then did he allow himself to pull back. Once he was out, his stomach wrenched and he vomited, the ugliness spewing out in black pools onto the pavement.

He looked up, staring blankly at Grandpa, all his energy expended. The old man grabbed his good arm. “Come on,” he pleaded. “I can hear sirens. You’ll be no good to her if they lock you up.”

Connor forced himself to his feet. He glanced at his arm, horrified at the blood soaking through his shirt. Cradling it against his chest, he ran after Grandpa, back toward their car and away from the scene of the crime.

When they reached the outskirts of town, Connor finally allowed himself a much-needed breath. His arm throbbed, his head felt thick and dizzy. He was losing too much blood, he realized vaguely.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” Trinity’s grandfather said, glancing over at him with concerned eyes. He didn’t look in much better shape than Connor felt. His nose had swollen to twice its size and blood had crusted on his unshaven chin. They made quite a pair, he thought grimly.

“I’ll be all right,” he assured the older man, reaching into his bag and pulling out his precious burn salve. In addition to soothing burns, it did a good job of closing wounds and preventing infection. He winced as he forced himself to smear the salve over the spot where the bullet had hit him. Thankfully, it appeared to have gone right through. He wouldn’t have to dig it from his skin.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” Grandpa said, watching him with dismay clear on his face. “I should have never taken off on you like that. I was just so hopeful that they really knew where she was.”

“They knew,” Connor replied grimly, relaxing against the back of the seat. The burn salve was doing its job and the pain was thankfully subsiding a bit. “Believe me, they knew. And now, thanks to you, so do we.”

“Are you there, girl?”

Caleb had to duck as he entered the low-ceilinged cave, narrowly missing a hanging stalactite. Blinking, he peered into the darkness, searching for something Fred shaped.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

He took another few cautious steps, careful not to step in a hole. Even here in the Nether, where dragons no longer had to worry about predators, the beasts gravitated toward hard-to-reach places—preferring dark, dank crannies to flower-strewn fields where they could more easily stretch out and worship the sun. Lingering instinct from the old days, perhaps, when they would hoard huge troves of treasure, deep in their lairs, safe from even the cleverest of thieves. Some dragons—the really old ones—still kept the tradition, manifesting shiny gems and glittering gold anytime they had the spark. Fred, on the other hand, preferred treasures of a more edible sort.

A bellowing roar echoed through the cave and a moment later Caleb found himself almost knocked over by a rampaging beast. His rampaging beast. He laughed as a solid snout rammed into his chest, tickling him as it sniffed at his various pockets.

“Hey, hey! Put that thing away!” he protested, playfully shoving the dragon’s nose. “You could hurt someone with that, you know.”