Touching Fire (Touch Saga)

by Airicka Phoenix

  I growled loudly at the back of my throat and dropped my forehead into his chest. His arms came around me and I was pulled in the rest of the way until we stood with our fronts pressed together. I nuzzled my face into the side of his neck and closed my eyes. His skin was so warm and smelled of soap. It was such a familiar thing, his scent. I breathed him in, letting him soak into me. My fingers walked up his forearm to rest on his bicep. I traced the stitches on his sleeve with a finger.

  I flattened my palm against his skin. “Is it wrong that I want to be this powerful being Ashton thinks I am just so I can beat the living snot out of Garrison?”

  His finger hooked a clump of hair falling over my shoulder and gently pushed it back. His knuckle brushed the curve of my jaw in the process. I felt that single caress all the way down to my toes.

  “No,” he murmured.

  I closed my eyes and rested my cheek on his shoulder. “I especially want to get my hands on Maia.”

  He chuckled. “I think it will be easier getting to Garrison, then it will be to get to Maia.”

  I raised my face so I could look into his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 21

  How did one sleep in a home that was completely alien and yet, oddly familiar? There was something severely unnatural about being in a place that echoed with memories I no longer had any grip on. I kept staring at things, unable to close my eyes. My brain kept pushing for even the slightest glimmer of … something but all I managed to do was give myself a headache. I lay in my parent’s bed, surrounded by all their things and wished my mom was there. The whole transition may have been less daunting if I had her by my side.

  Giving up on sleep, I threw back the covers and crept out of bed. My feet rustled across carpet as I made my way to the door and poked my head out. The house sat dark and horror-movie quiet. Part of me wanted to say screw this and leap back into bed. But I didn’t want to lie there anymore.

  The doors across the hall were closed. I didn’t know if Archer was sleeping, if he slept, but I knew Isaiah would be awake. I wondered if he was sat by the window, or lay in bed just staring at the ceiling. I started to take a step in his room’s direction, but stopped myself. There was no point us both just wandering around the place.

  Staying on the balls of my feet, I tiptoed down the hall towards the front of the house. I got all the way to the sitting area before I paused. Now what?

  Someone, I assumed the hallow things, had brought us groceries, three backpacks of clothes, the odd essential and a TV. It surprised me that there hadn’t been a TV there sooner. What did my parents do for fun if not watch TV? Yet, as soon as I thought the question, I ejected it from my brain. Some questions were just better left unasked. But rather than sit and let the comforting glow of the outside world lull me to sleep on the sofa, I moved past the gleaming machine to the front doors.

  Ashton had told us that we could go anywhere on the property as long as we stayed within the tree lines. That wasn’t so hard to do. The grounds were huge. Except I couldn’t shake the weird feeling I kept getting every time I thought about passing through the doors. Maybe it was the oddness of being in a house inside another house.

  Touching the cool metal of the doorknob, I twisted and pushed my entire weight against the massive frame. It came open with its groaning protest and I instantly regretted my decision to investigate the dusty tomb alone. At night. In the dark. Not smart. Not when I hated people in movies when they did stupid things like that. After everything I’d seen, I should have known better than to just go wandering about. If I got jumped and hacked into a million pieces by a malevolent spirit, it would be no one’s fault but my own.

  “The hallows don’t stay here.”

  I squeaked in fright, because what else were you supposed to do when some jerk sneaks up on you while you’re contemplating the many ways you could die in the dark?

  Archer grinned and moved to stand next to me. “Enjoying a midnight stroll, Princess?”

  Heart still racing, I glared at him. “I couldn’t sleep.” I took a deep breath. “What do you mean the hallows don’t stay here?”

  He glanced towards the chamber of shadows, broken by splashes of pale blue spilling through the windows to form patches across the hardwood.

  “Their connection to this realm is severed when they die. They can travel the living plane, but not for very long. They must return to Agartha.”

  “Why?” I wondered. “Is Agartha like the hallow underworld?”

  Archer chuckled. “No. Agartha is Agartha and the underworld, is something else.”

  “But there is an underworld? A hell?”

  “There is a place the dead go,” he confirmed with a contemplative nod.

  “So why don’t the hallows go there? I mean if they’re spirits and all…”

  “Have you ever heard the passage in Galatians 5:19-21?” When I shook my head, he continued, “The acts of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.”

  I stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, it’s simple, Princess. Those who do not renounce their sins, will never see the kingdom of God. Where else would these non-renouncers go?”

  I shrugged. “Hell? I mean, isn’t that where they’re supposed to go?”

  “Perhaps, but if they died of their sins and we are the holders, creators and gods of sin…”

  It began to make sense. “The soul would go to Agartha.”

  “Yes, they would.” He agreed happily. “There is a hell,” he said airily. “It is a cold, dark place. But a different breed of evil resides there.”

  It was late, I was already creeped out and we were standing on the open threshold into absolute darkness, I didn’t ask for an explanation.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” I asked, shutting the door.

  Archer moved away from me to dump his lean frame into the armchair he seemed to prefer. “I was. I felt the doors open.”

  I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know … you felt the doors open?”

  “I’m a very light sleeper,” he said in response. “Vibrations,” he said to my baffled expression.

  I didn’t believe him.

  “What’s the deal with you and my dad?” I asked, moving across the room to take a seat on the sofa. “You said he saved your life. How?”

  He casually tossed one leg over the armrest and half reclined in his chair as he pulled out his rawel and began twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s a little late for such a heart to heart, isn’t it, Princess?”

  “It’s not a heart to heart. It’s a simple question.”

  “But perhaps it’s not a simple answer.”

  I threw up my hands. “Fair enough. Then tell me why you won’t take those glasses off.”

  He laughed. “If I didn’t know any better, I would accuse you of actually being interested in me.”

  I stared back at him hard. “Well, you would be right. You’re here and my father seems to trust you. I think it’s only right that you give me a reason why I should do the same.”

  He threw his leg back over and sat up to rest his elbows on his knees and lean forward. “Tell me, Princess. How much do you know about your precious Prince Charming?”

  I stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  The soft material of his shirt rose and fell with his shrug. “Well, how do you know you can trust him?”

  “Because I know him,” I shot back. “Isaiah and I share a connection. He’s part of me, like my soul. You, on the other hand, I don’t know from Adam.”

  “Well, I don’t know Adam either,” he remarked, dropping back in his seat. “Nor do I like being compared to him.”

  Rolling my eyes, I got to my feet. “Forget I asked.”

 
“Princess.” His voice stopped me halfway across the room. “Your father asked me to teach you how to use your rawel. We’ll start tomorrow.”

  I said nothing as I left to return to my room.

  I had no recollection of falling asleep after returning from my chat with Archer, yet the sun was spilling through the windows and the whole house was soaked in the scent of frying meat, hot maple syrup and burnt toast when I opened my eyes.

  I yawned and stretched, simultaneously kicking away the sheets to roll out of bed. My feet dragged across carpet as I stumbled my way to the connected bathroom. I shut myself inside and turned on the shower. I stripped and climbed into the hot spray. All the while never once opening my eyes.

  The bright, pink backpack Ashton had filled with an assortment of girl clothes was waiting for me on the floor, at the foot of the bed when I emerged twenty minutes later. I hadn’t gone through everything, but from the few articles I’d seen on top, I had come to the quick conclusion that my father knew absolutely nothing about me. That sentiment remained as I pawed through the neatly packed pile of fabric in search of something a) not pink b) not stamped with a cute animal on the front, and c) didn’t make me feel about twelve.

  There were a lot of skirts and dresses, which would have been fine if they weren’t designed for someone much smaller in both height and weight. I gave up. Towel still securely in place, I edged open my door, peeked up and down the hall. It was empty except for the clink and clatter of dishes radiating from the kitchen. Guessing that was Archer, seeing as how neither Isaiah nor I ate, I darted to the room across from mine. I knocked softly. No answer. I knocked again and when no one answered a second time, I pried open the door and slipped inside.

  The room was dark and quiet except for the sound of running water from behind the door across the room. I took that as a good sign as I tiptoed to the bed and the bag sitting on top of undisturbed sheets. Why does he get the black bag? I thought grudgingly as I yanked open the zipper and rifled inside.

  All his stuff was black, or gray. There wasn’t a single pink thing amongst them. And all his stuff was normal, made to fit a regular sized guy. It wasn’t fair.

  “If you’re going to keep stealing my clothes, I think I should get something in return.”

  Like any good criminal, I dropped my bundle like I wasn’t just caught red handed and turned to face the figure darkening the doorway in nothing but a towel slung low around tapered hips. Beads of water dripped from unbound tresses and glistened as they rolled down the hard planes of his chest. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him in nothing but a towel. Somehow that should have been enough to curb the heat curling up my body, starting from my toes. It shouldn’t still be able to affect me as strongly as it always seemed to do. Yet, each new time was just another violent punch in the abdomen. I was rendered mute while I fought to catch my breath. Really, no man alive should look as beautiful as he did.

  The corner of his mouth quirked and I flushed as I realized he could read my thoughts. True, it was nothing I hadn’t thought a million times before. I was sure he’d heard much worse come from my head, yet it never got easier.

  “I wasn’t stealing,” I mumbled, holding tighter to my own towel. “Besides, your bag doesn’t look like a unicorn puked in it.”

  Still grinning, he closed the distance between us. I didn’t move when he reached me and bent down. He picked up his fallen bag and dropped it back onto the bed.

  “And what does unicorn puke look like?”

  I walked over to the bed and hopped up on it. I let my legs dangle as I sat there. “Very pink.”

  He laughed as he rummaged through the backpack.

  “I don’t hate pink,” I added quickly. “I just like it in moderation.”

  “So noted.” He removed a handful of clothes and held them out to me. “But,” he said when I reached for them. “I meant what I said. If you’re going to keep taking my clothes, I want something in return.” He let go when my fingers closed around the material.

  “Like what?” I said. “I doubt you’d fit in the stuff I got. Hell, I can’t even fit in them.”

  He snorted and set aside his bag. He turned to me and moved his body so my knees pressed into the hard curves of his abdomen. His hands pushed into the mattress on either side of my thighs. He leaned into me. I didn’t move back. I let the clean, soapy scent of him wash over me.

  “Maybe you can do something for me instead.”

  It should have been frightening just how little there was that I wouldn’t do for him. I had killed for him. I would do it again. It was hard to get picky after that.

  “Okay.”

  His face broke into a wide grin. The scent of cool mint wafted over my lips and cheeks when he chuckled. The skin tingled. The burn intensified when his fingers closed over my chin and the pad of his thumb followed the curve of my bottom lip. He leaned in and brushed the softest kiss to my mouth.

  He kissed me again, a little harder this time. His fingers drifted back to cup the base of my skull. I dropped the bundle in my arms to reach for him. My palms flattened against the warmth of his chest. They slid up to encircle his neck.

  I was pushed onto my back and found him above me, his damp hair dripped water onto my face, neck and collarbone.

  “One of us needs to get dressed,” he rasped. “I don’t think I can be trusted with you wearing so little.”

  “In a minute.” I fisted my fingers in his hair and dragging his mouth back down to mine. “I’m not ready to stop.”

  He kissed my cheek, my jaw and my chin. His hand roamed down the length of my side to rest on my waist. “Are you hungry?”

  I pulled him down over me, forcing him to prop his weight on his elbows on either side of my head as I attacked his mouth.

  “Starving.”

  I would have happily stayed on that bed, under him, kissing until the end of time, except something was on fire. The harsh stench of smoke billowed through the room, drowning our beautiful moment in its eye-watering mist.

  Isaiah pulled away as I coughed and turned to the door.

  “Do you think—?”

  He shook his head. “We would have heard an explosion.” He reached for his bag and pulled out another pair of sweats. “Get dressed.”

  Pants in hand, he left the room.

  I hurriedly yanked on the t-shirt and sweats and ran after him.

  He and Archer were in the kitchen and both were swarmed by a plume of black smoke so thick, I could scarcely see them through it.

  “What happened?” I called.

  The cling of pots getting dumped into the sunk filled the silence, followed by the rush of water.

  “I was trying to make breakfast,” Archer stated irritably. “No one told me it was that hard!”

  I wanted to snicker, but he looked so disgruntle, I bit it back. “Stick to cereal.”

  Leaving him scowling at the mess he’d caused, I started into the living room. The TV was on and I stopped to watch as the camera zoomed in on the arsenal of tanks and military vehicles that rumbled through the border between Canada and the US. Soldiers stood guard, brandishing AK-47s. It wasn’t just shots of British Columbia. The screen kept flipping from province to province, each showing the same.

  We were at war.

  “As you can see, the US government has dispatched its army to join our forces in the fight against the terrorists.”

  Was Garrison a terrorist? I supposed he was. He was killing people. He was needlessly slaughtering innocent lives in his search to find me. Did that make me an accomplice? Did that make me as responsible for their deaths? Could I have stopped this if I had just handed myself over?

  “Having reached max capacity, hospitals are turning patients away,” the banner at the bottom of the screen said. “Citizens are asked to come in only if injuries are serious.” There was a list of what was now considered serious.

  Loss of limb.

  Severe blood loss.

  Death.

  The camera f
lipped and panned over the crowd huddled beneath tents in front of the hospitals. Children cried on cots, blood soaked through the blankets draped over them. Men and women—battered, filthy and blank-eyed—crouched on mats. Soldiers, some mummified in gauze and blankets, lay on hospital beds by the doors. Others walked through the masses, helping where they could, offering support, medicine and sometimes even food.

  “God…” I sunk into the sofa and pressed my face into my hands.

  The cushion next to me dipped. I felt him even before he rested a hand on my back.

  I didn’t look at him. My attention stayed fixed on the screen. It was showing the dilapidated remains of an elementary school. The caption underneath stated over two hundred dead. Sixty injured. Parents were being advised not to send children to school until further notice.

  Faces of grieving families filled my vision, drowning me in their anguish. Some were screaming for the government to do something. How could they allow this to happen? Others were begging the people responsible to stop. But the majority were just numb, as hollow-eyed as the victims at the hospital.

  “Another attack … another bombing … more deaths … fire … death … death…”

  I lunged to my feet, my chest suffocating on air I couldn’t seem to regulate. I choked. I moved to the doors. I slammed through them and then I was running. I didn’t stop until I was kneeling in the middle of the driveway, dry heaving into gravel. Sweat soaked into my shirt, plastering the thing to my back. Tears burned down my face.

  “I need to go back.” I didn’t look up to know he was there, standing on the steps, watching me. “I can stop this. I can save all those people.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  I wiped my eyes on the hem of my shirt before forcing myself to face him and somehow remained unfazed by the fact that he was still clad only in a towel. “I have to. I have to do something.”

  He folded his arms and propped a shoulder against the frame. “And just giving yourself to the madman doing the killing is your solution?”

  I staggered to my feet, my temper crackling. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing either! Look what he’s doing—”