The Complete Colony Series. Lisa Jackson

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      Glenn Stafford was dead drunk. Drunken. Drunked…

      He eyed the liquid at the bottom of the bottle and could not believe—simply—could—not—believe—that it was gone except for a swallow or two. He’d done that? Drank down the whole dang thing?

      Vaguely he remembered the cooks going home and the wait staff closing up. Several people had stuck their heads inside his office and given him updates on the ending of the evening, but they were gone now, the restaurant closed. Scott had cruised through again and given Glenn the old evil eye.

      Screw you, buddy. I’ll get goddamn good and wasted if I want. It’s my booze, too!

      Now he staggered to the door, steadying himself on the jamb. The place was quiet. Unearthly quiet, he thought. Unearthly. Kind of like he felt. He could see his feet moving one in front of the other as he navigated his way toward the front entrance. Outside, the parking lot lights made little bluish moons on the pavement. Inside, the ambient lighting around the floor sent a diffused yellow glow to sections of carpet.

      Glenn turned back toward the kitchen and bar area. What the hell? He deserved another bottle. He thought of Gia. Man, would she be pissed. Probably lying naked on the bed waiting, hoping he’d come in and screw her just to make a damned baby. Talk about taking the fun out of things. She’d called twice—or had it been three times?—but he’d told the hostess to tell his wife he was busy, and he’d let his cell phone go straight to voicemail.

      Now he squinted at the rows of bottles of booze and caught sight of himself in the mirrored wall behind the hedge of liqueurs and spirits. Damn, Stafford. You’re…too…stocky.

      “Stocky,” he said aloud, then grinned at his reflection like an idiot. Fuck ’em. It was time for another drink.

      He rooted around and found an unopened bottle of Bushmills.

      Clink.

      He cocked his head toward the sound, his hand hovering over a bottle. He was alone, right? Hadn’t Luis said, “Good night, I’ll lock up, Mr. Stafford,” a little while ago?

      The noise had come from the kitchen.

      Or had it?

      Maybe he’d tipped one bottle into another himself as he was checking labels. He was a little wasted. He could have thought he’d heard something from the kitchen. Yeah, that was probably it. He strained to listen, but could hear nothing but that irritating smooth jazz that Luis hadn’t turned off. Still…

      “Hey,” he called, swaying on his feet, his fingers around the neck of his next bottle. Geez, maybe he didn’t need another drink.

      He sniffed and froze. Wait a minute. Was that smoke? Was someone in the kitchen smoking?

      “Goddammit,” he muttered. Holding the bottle by its neck, he weaved his way into the kitchen. Under-cabinet fluorescents showed him the gleaming stainless steel surfaces and he felt a moment of pure pride. Why wasn’t the restaurant making it? Why…

      Glenn’s nostrils flared. The smell of smoke was much stronger here. “Who’s there?” he yelled.

      Bang!

      Something hit the floor. Hard.

      “Jesus!” His heart began to thud. “Hey,” he said, more cautiously, stepping forward, a sense of panic overtaking him.

      Whoosh!

      The sound was as loud as wind through a tunnel.

      “What the fuck?”

      SLAM!

      The back door?

      The skin on Glenn’s nape crinkled. Fear congealed his blood. Something was wrong here, but he was too drunk to figure it out.

      He blinked as he realized smoke was billowing from a back closet, the one behind the stove. He tried to step back, but slipped and smacked on his ass just as molten gold flames suddenly shot upward. Glass broke, the Irish whiskey splashing over the floor. The stainless steel changed to a blinding mirror of flame.

      “Oh, God!” He tried to backpedal, crawl away, but it was too late.

      Glenn’s eyes popped open as a wall of fire rushed at him. He opened his mouth to scream.

      Ka-BOOM!

      An explosion rocked the restaurant. Glenn was tossed against the wall.

      Trapped.

      Crackling, wild flames shot outward. Heat seared his skin. His lungs burned hot as hellfire.

      “Gia!” he shrieked, knowing he was about to die.

      His mouth was an “O” of horror as he cowered and coughed, black smoke filling his lungs, his skin curdling.

      He was screaming and screaming and the last thing he remembered was the roar of the inferno burning through his ears.

      Burn. Burn in hell, you bastard.

      I stand in the shadows, watching as the flames climb through the roof and burst against the night sky. Golden. Glorious. Rich. Like shimmering hands reaching for the heavens, as if in supplication, consuming everything in sight, black smoke clogging the air.

      The fire is perfect.

      And protection.

      Far in the distance sirens scream and a few cars even now are slowing, people shouting. Panic ensuing.

      I want to stay but I can’t be this close. Perhaps I can slip into the crowd, watch the spectacle unnoticed.

      I must melt back into the shadows.

      For now.

      The phone rang loudly on Becca’s nightstand and she shot into a sitting position, her pulse leaping. She fumbled for the receiver and glanced at the clock as Ringo growled from the foot of the bed. One thirty-six? Who would be calling? Oh, God…

      “Becca, it’s Hudson,” she heard as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Sorry to wake you. I thought you should hear it from me. Scott and Glenn’s restaurant is on fire.”

      “What?”

      “Scott just called. He thinks Glenn was still inside.”

      “What? What?” Becca snapped on a light, panic running through her. Ringo was now on all fours on the bed, the fur at his neck standing on end. “No…we were just there a couple of weeks ago.” An image of Glenn with his short brown hair and thick build came to СКАЧАТЬ