Melani Blazer

“Ella, you have to trust me. Please. Sometimes you won’t be able to question me, or see the why behind what I say. Just trust me, okay?”

“I don’t get it, Quen. I just don’t get this at all.”

“You don’t have to. Just promise me you’ll behave.”

“You’re treating me like a twelve-year-old.”

His face was suddenly close, too close. “I wouldn’t do this if you were twelve.” His warm lips met mine, pressing, kneading, coaxing them apart. I leaned into him, letting his tongue graze past my teeth and inject a new kind of heat into my body.

I felt much colder when he stepped back. But at least it seemed that what had happened this morning, or whenever it was, hadn’t been a fluke.

“No. It wasn’t a fluke. Don’t even think it.”

The words worked like fuel on the fire that had started somewhere in my chest. I didn’t analyze it, just reveled in it. It got me the last leg of the journey without another peep about the temperature or aches in my bones.

Camp was a deserted building that was just as cold as the barren fields outside it. Thank God the wind didn’t slice through the walls. It tried, howling through all the invisible crevices. Did I mention it was dark? Black as pitch inside.

“I just bet there’s no electricity here is there, brain child?” I wasn’t sure where Quentin was in the room, but he was undoubtedly in hearing range.

“Nope. I’m trying to find matches.”

Matches? Wasn’t this a man who could do magic? Couldn’t he make fire?

“Found ‘em!” he cried triumphantly. Guess he wasn’t listening to me.

I listened for the scrape of the match and the flare of light. Quentin had found an oil lamp.

The inside of the building came to life in a flicker of orange. It was divided in half, one part a cold, empty laboratory area, the other a less than cozy living area. At least there was a fireplace.

“You are going to light a fire, right?”

“Of course.” He strode toward the wood piled beside it. I was way confused. Why wasn’t he using magic to get it done faster? With little thought I lifted a log and set it on the half charred pieces that had been left in the fireplace. Quentin sat back on his heels, but didn’t turn around.

Something was definitely going on. My gems, now a fixture around my neck, throbbed with the use of power. Other than the little push in the snow, I hadn’t used them much.

Was he waiting to see if I could start it? Could I? If I could, did I want him to know? He didn’t answer. I had to guess he wasn’t reading my mind.

I had done it before, hadn’t I? Breathed fire. Well, that’s not exactly the effect I needed now, unless I wanted to be the human torch. I thought it best I keep that little trick a secret.

I crossed my fingers and reached. Deep, deep down into the energy that was bundled in my cramped toes, aching calves, and stiff fingers. I drew in breath after breath and willed it to a central spot in my chest. It was time.

I pointed my finger at the center of the log. With knowledge that must have been the most primitive, because I certainly don’t know how I did it, I transferred the power to my shaking fist.

I didn’t trust myself. “Quentin, you wanna move?”

No comment, no glance in my direction, but he got up and stood against the adjoining wall.

“All right.” I took a deep breath. “Here goes.”

I swear it was the rise and fall of my chest and the shivers that still pulsed through my body that caused me to miss. And the recoil. I could blame the recoil.

The fireball bounced off the brick wall and landed just about where Quentin had been. Of course.

He jumped over and stomped out the red embers on the carpet. I expected something along the lines of “Nicely done, Ella.” In pure sarcasm, of course. But he backed up against the wall again.

Concentrate, I told myself. I found the strength easier this time, still smoldering. I stoked it up and let it roll down my arm, puddling like lava in my fist.

I pointed my finger as if it were a long range rifle. I stepped forward, bent my knees and braced myself. Ready. It’s now or never. Aim. Fingers still crossed. Fire.

I ducked behind the couch when the log exploded into splinters. Well, I guess we have kindling wood now.

The oil lamp was on the ground, a figure curled next to it. Had I hit him? Had those flying pieces flown into him like a hundred tiny wooden stakes?

He didn’t move when I stood over him. I nudged him with my foot. “Quentin?” I was scared he wouldn’t answer.

“Are we dead yet?”

“No. But it’s cold and if we don’t get the fire lit, we might have the option of freezing to death.”

“I thought you were trying to blow this place up.”

I shrugged. Sorry wasn’t really an option, was it? I was too exhilarated with the power I had found to feel very remorseful. “No…I just um, atomized the log. Shall I put another one—”

“No,” he cut in, waving his hands, and the light, above his head. “I’ll do it already. The old fashioned way.”

He doubted me, did he? I snapped around and tossed another piece of split wood where the other one had sat. For good measure I commanded all the tiny pieces to pile themselves around it. To my surprise, that all worked without a glitch.

I was physically exhausted. It had been a long day. Great sex, two travels and a trek through the tundra had drained me. The two previous fireballs hadn’t helped. But I was closer. I might be able to make this one happen.

There wasn’t much fire left in me. I let it swirl around while I chewed on the idea of Quentin thinking I couldn’t do it. Wow. That helped.

I concentrated on the small slivers that surrounded the log. They would light easily. They only need a gentle touch. I squinted in the pale light and ran my fingers over the picture of the hearth I had in my head. Spark, I commanded. The light of a match.

The heat burned my fingertips. I held steady despite the pain. I envisioned the flames catching, growing. The heat was beautiful. The sun on my face.

“Shit, Ella. Holy Shit!” Quentin tackled me, grabbed me under one arm and dragged me outside.

“Quentin, the fire, I lit the fire. Why—”

He grabbed my wrist and shoved my hand deep in the snow.

I wanted to howl from the agony of it. “Damn it. That…it effing hurts!” I shouted.

Laughter bubbled up out of Quentin.

“It’s not freaking funny,” I tried to slap at him with my uninjured hand, but he scooted out of the way.

“Effing? Effing? Ella, if you’re gonna say it, go for the gusto.”

Oh, I was saying it all right, over and over. Mentally. I couldn’t push it past my lips.

“You a coward? Think your Sunday school teacher is going to hear you? There’s nothing but a few Eskimos for hundreds of miles and you can’t bring yourself to say a simple word?”

“It doesn’t matter what I say, Quentin. It’s not going to take the pain away.”

I thought he was going to fall back in the snow he was laughing so hard. And if he did, I just might feel enough compassion to bury him up to his chin and let him worry about frostbite in his delicate areas. I wanted to simply sit with my hand buried deep in the snow and writhe in the pain of the skin on my fingers tightened. I could almost envision the tips of those digits tearing open and peeling like a boiled tomato. I bet that’s what they looked like too.