The Shimmers in the Night

Five

It wasn't only him, either.

Behind the Burner, as Cara and her friends backed up, others appeared—all of them copies, as though he was duplicating himself. They had the same face. They all opened their mouths in the same way, and in every single wide-open mouth the orange tongues of fire flickered. And then they were coming forward, and heat blasted off them in a wave.

Fear hit Cara along with the heat, but oddly she found she was thinking clearly. She had to get the book. It had to be the right one; she'd seen it start to respond to them. She grabbed it off the table but instantly dropped it—her hands hurt too much to hold on, a searing agony on the palms. The rug had burned them.

"Get the book!" she yelled to the others, and Jaye leaned down and grabbed it and then they were running. The three of them ran as fast as they could, through the thick drapes on the door, swerving down the hall the way they'd come in....

But the heat didn't let up. The heat stayed right at their backs. It wasn't that the Burners were running, just that they were there—there were no thudding footsteps but those of the girls themselves, no noise but a low crackle—the crackle of flame—and a rhythmic sound like heavy breathing. Heat pulsed from them, heat pushed at Cara's head and shoulders and forced her to run fast, pell-mell along the corridors, banging against cabinets and statues as she went.

How could they get away? They had to go somewhere the Burners couldn't go.

"We've got to get into the cold!" she yelled.

Outside it was cold, she thought, and the Burners didn't like cold. Would they follow the girls into the elevator? Could they? She didn't know where the stairs even were, in the core, and anyway this was the eighth floor...so they couldn't make it that far. They couldn't make it all the way outside.

Then she remembered the kitchen. It was near, and it had a walk-in fridge. Or maybe freezer. She'd passed it as they went into dinner: a door with a small window and the kind of metal handle you sometimes pulled up to open an airtight door, even a sign that read Cold Storage Please Close Till It Clicks.

"This way," she cried out, and had to push Hayley to make a turn. She thought she knew the way—it was down some stairs, but not too many, she thought—and then, running, she realized there was too much heat on her back now. Too much to stand. Something was burning.

It was her fleece hoodie. She knew it wasn't the shirt, because her skin wasn't hurting. Yet. She shrugged desperately as she ran, frantically, and the burning hoodie fell behind, but now the shirt beneath it felt, hot too—

"Hot," came a breathy, raspy voice, almost right in her ear. "Hot...hot...hot..."

It wasn't either of the other girls, who were beside her and in front. It was him.

"Turn! Down the stairs!" she cried out, and they did, stumbling as they fell against each other. She smelled something acrid and was suddenly afraid of her hair catching fire. Her whole body felt weak. They were scrambling against the wall, their feet were slipping on the stone, and then there was the kitchen door. They banged through it.

"Left! Left!" she yelled, and Jaye grabbed the door to the cold-storage room. And jerked it open.

"Hot..." breathed the voice, beside her.

And then they were inside, tripping over each other and a pile of big cardboard boxes right in the middle of the floor. The big book, which Jaye had been carrying, snagged the edge of a shelf and fell onto the floor; frigid air hit their dripping faces, and Cara turned and slammed the door shut.