Page 49 of A Thief to Die For

I draw my knife and hold it out, ready for him. ‘Do you know what the Commander’s going to do to you for starting these fires?’

A few Dresden stop to listen.

Soren jerks his arm free of Petronis, then climbs on top of a picnic table. ‘I have an announcement,’ he yells, loud enough that people everywhere still. ‘Tonight, the collections trailer was raided. By two people. Dresden. We know you’re hiding them. You have until morning to turn over the thieves, or the rest of the homes will burn too.’

Gasps and cries rise from the growing crowd.

‘No,’ I yell, spinning to face everyone. ‘That won’t happen. He doesn’t have the authority. I’m in charge with the Commander gone.’

Soren steps down from the table, glaring at me. ‘Then where have you been?’ Dried blood trails down his chin, making him look crazed, courtesy of Ryland’s attack from earlier. ‘I did what had to be done – what the Commander would have wanted.’

‘The Commander would have wanted you to follow protocol and sound the alarm so we could search the area,’ I shout. ‘You think you’ll be applauded for risking his workers’ lives? How can they work if they have to rebuild their homes? You’ve directly threatened his business.’

I slow my speech, so he doesn’t miss a word. ‘You won’t touch another house or so help me, I will exile you myself right now.’

Soren looks like he wants to light me on fire.

Ryland touches my hand, and I realise he hasn’t left my side. He tugs me back a step. ‘We need something to carry water. Now.’

I glance at Soren and find his gaze locked on Ryland’s hand in mine. He’s breathing hard, but something dangerously curious brews in his eyes.

‘Water,’ Ryland reminds me softly.

Yes, water.

I point at the hollow-skulled goons. ‘This isn’t done, Soren. You’re going to answer for this.’ Then I guide Ryland away and watch as Brother Thomas dumps a small bucket of water on the fire consuming a deerskin tent. The water vaporises without doing a thing. Flames and sparks drift high into the night air. I swallow back my despair. The blaze is a starving beast, and we don’t have what we need to stop it.

Or do we?

‘The mine!’ I whisper.

I run to Brother Thomas. He’s covered in soot. Sweat soaks his brow.

‘We need to gather the wheelbarrows and small carts from the mine, anything that will hold water. Fill them at the pond on your way back. Can you do that? We could even form a chain to refill them.’

He takes the lead on finding people. I stay behind, not sure my ankle can handle the journey.

‘Is there anyone still inside?’ Ryland demands of a crying woman not far away. The curtains hanging inside her glassless window have just started to burn.

‘Everyone’s out,’ shouts a shirtless man. ‘But we need to save it. Please. We have to save the wood.’

Ryland’s jaw flexes as he considers the treehouse. In seconds, the flames have already spread to the walls. ‘Then let’s take it down.’ He grabs a board and yanks hard until nail by nail it pries free. I help him. Some of the planks are burning on the ends and the desperate owners smother them with a blanket.

More people join us, and soon Ryland and I move on to the next home in danger. The flames are so cursedly hot as they lick towards us from feet away.

But then the water starts to arrive, and the people who were clearing out their homes, thinking it was a lost cause, join back in the fight to extinguish the fire. I even see a few guardsmen – Lucky and Fitzgerald – driving a horse and trailer filled with spilling buckets of water. Others arrive and do crowd control, moving children and the injured out of the danger zone.

We labour for hours, long into the night, but our efforts are working. By the time the flames are out, only nine homes are destroyed, their remains nothing but smouldering black logs and ash. I’m beyond exhausted as I sit on the ground, legs sprawled out in front of me. Ryland is still dumping water, oversaturating as much as he can. Grendle’s here too, bandaging a young man’s arm nearby – at least she doesn’t have him by the tongue.

There’s a movement of people preparing food and warm drinks. A woman passes me a mug. I thank her and drink from it hastily. It feels odd to be here interacting with any of them. Showing my face.

Some singing breaks out, a chorus I’ve heard many times leaking from within the mine. A beautiful woman with a storm of curly brown hair raises her voice above the others, leading them. One by one, everyone joins her. Goosebumps spread over my skin at the heartfelt voices coming together as one from every direction of the Dresden Circle. There’s something magical about it that I’ve never felt before. I listen to the hope in the lyrics. Marvel at the words – they’re singing about being grateful.

It’s baffling.

How can they come together and sing like this after suffering such loss?

But the more I listen, the more something expands almost painfully in my chest. I don’t know what it is. Maybe a longing? A desire to join in with them?