The room was blazing from the bed to the curtains, the flames licking all the way to the ceiling, melting and bubbling the green plaster walls. I looked at Shane, who now cowered behind me. I knew that a single touch of those flames to his skin would send him up like a Roman candle. It wasn’t just his blood that was flammable.
“Go, Isabel,” he commanded, sensing my indecision.
Shane should have known me better than to even suggest it. Our relationship might not be all puppies and kittens, but he was my partner and there was no way I was going to leave without him. I turned to tell him as much, my hands already on my hips, when behind him, I saw the answer to our problems. Shoving him to the side, I tugged a massive, wheeled suitcase down from the shelf overhead. It was the size of a steamer trunk, only with soft sides and wheels on one edge.
I unzipped the case. “Get in!”
He threw me a disgusted look. “No.”
“You got a better idea?” I snapped.
He climbed backward into the cramped case, pulling his knees tight into his chest, and sighed heavily.
I struggled to get the zipper started. “Time to lay off the carbs, Shane.”
He snorted and exhaled a deep breath, shrinking further into the faux-leather bag. Finally, the zipper groaned and gave way, beginning its journey around the track. It got stuck in the corner, forcing me to push hard on Shane’s bulging shoulder.
“Ouch!”
“Oh, shut up! You’re dead for shit’s sake. Suck it up!”
Baggage securely zipped, I pulled up the handle and ran from the closet, only to be immediately assaulted by the noxious fumes, the thick smoke obscuring my vision. I leaned into the doorjamb, swiping my sleeve across my face to sop up some of the sweat and tears in my eyes, struggling to make sense of the scene around me.
With my decision made, I managed to tug the case into the hallway. We were upstairs, but the front door was visible from the top step and, luckily, it was relatively clear of flames. How long that would remain true was another story. I launched myself down the narrow stairs, the heavy suitcase banging down the steps behind me. I have to admit, the mental picture of Shane in that tumbling bag made me smile just a little.
I was almost to the last step when the stairs gave way. Flames crawled up from beneath the shards of wood, threatening to engulf me—and my baggage. With an enormous heave, I freed myself from the debris and pulled the relatively undamaged suitcase off the burning rubble. Just as I reached for the door, it flew open, hitting my outstretched arm and sending me sprawling across the parquet floor.
Standing in the doorway, looking slightly confused, was a fireman in a bulky, yellow suit. Seeing me, he scooped me into his arms and turned for the door. I screamed and hit him on the back, trying to make myself understood over the chaos. I pointed frantically at the case on the floor, but he shook his head and continued to try to get me out the door. Now I was being thoroughly uncooperative, clutching the doorjamb with both hands, even as my wounded arm screamed in protest. The maneuver must have been unexpected because I fell free of his arms and crawled to the case before he could reach me.
“My partner is in there,” I screamed repeatedly.
Finally, he seemed to understand and, helping me to my feet, tugged me and my heavy baggage into the yard where police and paramedics waited.
Soon, I was sitting in the back of an ambulance, sucking oxygen through a plastic mask while trying to explain the situation to a sympathetic-looking EMT. Across the yard, a curious patrol officer unzipped the suitcase and Shane burst out. His eyes were red with panic, his skin opalescent in the reflection of the flames. The orange glow from behind illuminated him harshly, making him look like a demon. Or, more accurately, he looked like what he was, a monster.
In a flash, a dozen cops were commanding him to lie on his stomach with his hands clasped behind his head. He obeyed slowly, realizing he was locked in their crosshairs. I rolled my eyes.
“Here we go again,” I muttered.
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The Canary Club Page 30