Page 73 of Anomalies

A scream rips from me then, shredding my vocal cords as I grab the metal knob, and it burns straight through my flesh.

I fall back to the floor— more heat waiting for me there. There isn’t enough air in my lungs to scream, but I gasp for it anyway.

Right as my eyes slide shut glass shatters.

Someone forces the collar of my shirt over my nose and mouth, but it’s too late for that. Even with all the time in the world, I’d never get rid of all the smoke. I’m one with it now. I’m going to drown in it, just like I drowned in that riptide. Drowned, then resurrected, except this time⁠—

I’m yanked from the floor, and the collar of my shirt slips from my face.

Wood splinters and heat flares so bright and hot and unyielding that I hear a muffled string of curses. Callan.

I feel the flames at my back. I feel his arms tighten around me.

Then I feel nothing.

18

LUCINA

Smoke-free air fills my lungs, and it’s… euphoric. Gods, I took it for granted.

A burst of adrenaline crashes through me like a steep tidal wave, and tears spill across my cheeks. I open my eyes to release them⁠—

And I’m met with grey ones. Desperate, grey ones.

“There you are,” Callan murmurs around a cork clamped between his teeth, an empty glass vial in the hand he has wrapped underneath my chin. “Tell me where it hurts.”

My lips part to speak, but no sound comes out, so I just hold my hands out to him, palms up. I can’t even look at the flesh I know is ruined.

The Captain’s eyes fall to my hands, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He grips my shoulders gently, moving me until the backs of my thighs hit the cushions of a couch. I fall into it as he storms into another room without another word.

I still can’t look down, but the adrenaline is starting to recede, and then it won’t matter where I’m looking, the pain will be impossible to ignore.

Alive, I remind myself. I’m alive.

And I’m inside a cabin, but it definitely isn’t mine. There’s not a flame in sight. Across from the couch are two plush navy-blue armchairs with a fireplace built into the wall behind them. A wooden coffee table sits in the center of the space, and a dark grey and black woven area rug covers the hardwood. To my right is a small kitchenette, an island in the center with a few bar stools tucked underneath it, and a hallway beside it that I can’t see all the way down.

Pain bursts through my palms, and I whip my gaze to the ceiling, absentmindedly counting the ridges in the tin roof until Callan returns as quickly as he’d left, with what looks like a first aid kit.

He pulls the coffee table close and sits down on the edge of it, careful not to bump his knees into my burnt ones as he spreads the kit wide beside him. When he reaches for my hands, I hesitate, my jaw clenching so hard it aches.

“Please,” he asks softly. “This is my fault. Let me fix it.”

I peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth, watching him with watery eyes. “You tried to barbeque me?” It was meant to be a joke, a poor one at that, but it’s all I have at the moment. It’s mainly a distraction anyway, and I use the time it takes me to say the words to slide my hands over to him.

“You have jokes?” he asks, a bit concerned and slightly amazed, then his stare falls, and any hint of a smile vanishes off his face. “No, I didn’t.” Callan shakes his head, then lifts it. His voice goes stone cold, as icy as his stare. “I’d never do this to you, Lucina. It’s important to me that you understand that.”

“Then why would it be your fault?” I slip into the calmest state I can find, hanging onto the adrenaline as best I can, clinging to it like it’s the last shred of hope I have.

He moves silently, rummaging through the kit like any sudden movement might take me out of this semi-calm state.

“I wasn’t there.” He says the words fast, timing them perfectly with the first swipe of a lukewarm washcloth, and the pain lingers even after he lifts it, a sharp throb that radiates up my arms. “That’s why it’s my fault.”

He did leave.

“What happened?” I ask as he readies the blood-stained washcloth again and I hiss when it hits the raw skin.

“I saw someone in the woods.” Callan gives me a second to breathe before doing it again, supplementing it with another bone-chilling confession. “He was standing behind your cabin. I couldn’t see his face; he took off running when he saw me. I should have stayed and made sure you were alright, but I didn’t.” He abandons the washcloth and reaches for a small tin of salve. “I ran after him. Then I lost him in the woods, and when I came back…everything was on fire. I got you out as fast as I could.”