Sacrifice. Brigid Kemmerer

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      He immediately regretted yelling for his brothers. “Hide in the woods,” Michael said. “Now.”

      “No!” said Chris. “Michael—we have to get—we have to get them—”

      “I’m going to. I’m telling you to hide.”

      “But—”

      “Goddamn it, Chris!” His own voice broke. “I’m not losing all of you! Go!”

      Chris’s face went whiter, if that was possible.

      So did Hunter’s, but he took hold of Chris’s arm and started dragging. “Come on. We can hide.”

      Chris jerked free—but he followed.

      For a moment, Michael wanted to call them back. He wanted to form a human chain and drag them all into the house behind him.

      But he didn’t know what he’d find inside.

      He realized he was standing in the open, lit up by roaring flames.

      A rookie sniper could take you out without a scope.

      Everything suddenly sounded like a premonition. Michael sprinted onto the porch and grabbed hold of the door handle without thinking, throwing the French door wide and rushing into the kitchen.

      Smoke hit him in the face, and Michael jerked back, coughing. The smoke detectors were screaming, three times as loud now that the door was open. He dropped to his knees and spent a minute relearning how to breathe. The air in here was hot and dry and tasted like ash. Pulling his damp shirt up over his mouth and nose helped, but not a lot.

      He crawled forward. Darkness cloaked him immediately. He lost track of the door in less than five seconds. Every inhale tasted of smoke, along with something acrid and sour as he got farther into the kitchen. He put his hand down on something unfamiliar that crumbled under his fingers and wished the flashlight weren’t in the garage.

      Michael stopped. The garage. Full of landscaping equipment—including fertilizer and chemicals.

      Was the house still on fire? Was he crawling through a ticking bomb?

      He inhaled to yell for his brothers again, but his lungs didn’t want to inflate all the way. Michael coughed and pushed forward, trying to rush now.

      His shoulder hit the cooking island hard, and Michael swore—but at least it helped orient him. The doorway to the front hall should be straight ahead.

      Gabriel could survive in an inferno, but Michael knew smoke made it hard for him to breathe. Nick could handle a loss of oxygen—but he couldn’t take a fire’s heat for long.

      Please be together, he thought.

      Then he amended that.

      And alive. Please be together and alive.

      Michael wished he had Hunter’s gun, so he could shoot these screeching smoke detectors. With their persistent beeping, he couldn’t hear anything in the house. No movement, no voices.

      Everything seemed very still in the darkness.

      His hands found the slate flooring of the foyer. Every forward movement brought another handful of grit, both a blessing and a curse. He hadn’t found his brothers collapsed in here, and that could be a good thing or a bad thing.

      Maybe he should have used his cell phone to try to call them.

      He choked on the thought, unsure whether he was laughing or crying. He put his forehead on his hands and inhaled again. When had he gotten so tired?

      Glass shattered somewhere up ahead.

      Michael jumped and felt as if he were waking up. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor. He fought to get to his hands and his knees, but his limbs felt too heavy. His shirt had come off his face.

      More glass shattering. Then a loud crack.

      Someone was in the house.

      Michael got his hands beneath his shoulders, and he managed to push back, toward the kitchen. He needed to hide.

      Left hand. Right hand. This was more difficult than he remembered.

      The house was so dark.

      He needed to find his brothers. He needed to warn them. He hit the cooking island with his hip, and it almost stole his balance. His head slammed into something, and flickering starbursts filled his vision.

      He couldn’t tell which way was up. He couldn’t find his hands.

      More starbursts. This felt like drowning again.

      A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Michael flung himself back. Was this a Guide? Had they come after him? The smoky house, the lack of fire—all of a sudden this felt like a trap. Michael couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but his attacker wouldn’t be able to either. If they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t shoot him.

      Every motion still felt slow, as if it took too long for messages to make it from his brain to his limbs. He barely had an opportunity to move before someone else grabbed him. Or was it the same person? He had no idea.

      Something metal clicked, and Michael tried to swing a fist.

      But then he inhaled, and his entire world clouded over.

      Hannah heard Irish swear, and she swung her flashlight, trying to find him. The beam of light barely penetrated more than a few feet, and lit up nothing more than smoke in the hallway. But still, she didn’t need to feel along walls to navigate through the thick darkness.

      She knew this house.

      She knew this staircase. This wall. This archway. This kitchen, where Michael would make her coffee and ask her quietly about her day.

      She’d known the door they had to break through to get in here. The windows she’d had to smash to release trapped heat and smoke.

      She and Irish weren’t going to find anyone conscious in here.

      They’d be lucky to find someone alive.

      Her breath shook for a moment, loud behind her mask. Stop it. If she lost herself in thoughts, she’d never be able to get through this job.

      Thoughts like how Michael and his brothers hadn’t been sitting out front, waiting anxiously for the fire trucks.

      Thoughts of Michael’s hand pushing the hair back from her face. Or how he could be gruff and rough around the edges with everyone else, but his voice would go soft and gentle, just for her.

      Thoughts of his brothers, who’d invited her and James into their mix without judgment.

      “Michael,” she whispered, the name echoing back to her through the mask. “Michael, please don’t be in here.”

      “Blondie!” yelled Irish, his voice muffled behind his own mask. “I’ve got a body. Grab СКАЧАТЬ