Nickolai narrowed his eyes. "Then it seems we shall have to make you see!" he roared. Spinning on his back foot, he paced back and forth along the edge of the ash. Of course she couldn't see what he needed her to. No, that would be too easy, and nothing in his life could ever be easy. Jonathan, Alexander, the whole Council. They were always telling him to be strong, to fight, to stay in control. And he had been strong, he had kept fighting, but they, they had always been in control. The beast inside of him had always been in control. And now--now this stupid girl was in control. How could he make her understand? How could he make this work?

Calina struggled to clear her mind as she watched him. Watched his fire move back and forth, back and forth, each pace stoking it higher. Tendrils of his inner flame wrapped together, stretched out, tickled the edges of the ash--tentative to cross that line, but powerful, so powerful as they reached out to her. She picked herself up slowly, brushed the ash off of her clothes, and stumbled hesitatingly toward him.

"Nickolai?" she ventured. "I want to help, but you have to tell me what to do."

Nickolai turned, blazing. "I don't know what to do!" His eyes were dark and his presence huge. He stomped toward her, kicking up ash with his boots. Small cinders danced in the air around him. "Tell me, stupid girl, have you ever let loose a monster? Have you ever chased through the streets after a beast more ancient than time? A demon whose very presence is enough to drive you mad? Who, every second you fail to imprison it, is killing and destroying innocent people? No! You haven't. And I haven't either. I killed the only people who had!"

Suddenly Nickolai looked down. His face blanched, whiter than any white Calina had ever seen; he had crossed his carefully constructed line. He faltered, reached out a hand. Calina ran to him, catching him just as he toppled toward her. She stumbled under his weight, but dragged him back onto the street.

He stood more solidly once his feet hit the pavement, yet still his weight pushed at her, trying to drag her down with him. Calina's breath was catching in her throat, but she kept dragging him, determined to get him away from the place. Determined to get away from the terror, from the hatred, from the flame now rekindled in the debris behind them.

People were running past her now, back toward the flame. Calina could hear the sirens again, and the shouting. She could picture the flames now licking at the air, the deep glow of the rekindled coals, their slow growth from a dark maroon into a brilliant scarlet. The large timbers shook off their coats of ash and rose up to groan and tumble together into something bigger and more perfect. But she saw it only in her mind, she did not turn to watch and, for just the second time in her life, Calina walked away from a fire. She towed the half-dead Nickolai with her, even as the air blew past her face, rushing to join the flames.

His weight was unbearable. Nickolai's arm dug in across her shoulders, pushing her neck forward and creating a hunch in her back like a gargoyle's. Her legs, already weak, barely stayed underneath her; they felt awkward, cramped between the hard pavement and the steady pressure of his weight.

"Nickolai?" she coughed out between breaths. "Nickolai? I can't carry you like this." He seemed to step a little more surely, but his eyes were glazed, his weight still pressing her down into the pavement. They took a few more steps together and she knew that she couldn't continue like this, yet they were only a few steps from the cathedral; she could still feel its heat at her back.

"Come on," she grunted, more to herself than to Nickolai. "You can do this. You have to get away from here. Anywhere but here. I'll just leave you somewhere nearby. You've never done anything for me. Frightened me half to death, yelled at me, involved me in your troubles. I have enough troubles of my own, thank you very much." She kept walking, stumbling under the weight of the zombified man beside her.

"There. A nice pile of trash bags. You know, Nickolai, homeless people sleep on trash all the time. I dump you there, no one thinks twice." Nickolai mumbled something incoherent in reply. She marched on, moving slowly away from the cathedral, ever further away from the terrifying heat and chaos at her back. She was barely looking where she was going, simply following the line of the sidewalk as it curved away next to the river. "There, the bridge. Nice shadows. Out of the way. Nobody will bother you there. You can rest and I can go home. Never have to see you again." Her step slowed as she approached the inviting curve of the overpass, but picked up again as she moved past it.

Finally she saw someplace that her conscience could agree with. A small stone townhouse, gated entry. It looked like something out of an old movie, but she recognized the place from her youth. Her father had died here. Nickolai could die here too, for all she cared, but at least there was the possibility that he wouldn't.

"Here we go, big guy, somebody here will take you off my hands. Take good care of you too, I'm sure. You'll be up and yelling at people in no time. Just not at me. I'll be long gone, sitting at home, playing cards with Ben, making Gran dinner..." She pushed through the double doors, and finally felt his weight lifted from her shoulders. Large, burly orderlies picked Nickolai up, put him on a trolley, asked her questions she didn't know the answers to. Truly she was only a little better off than he was; she shouldn't even have made it this far. She ignored their frantic queries and plopped into a soft chair by the wall, let herself drift off into the feel of her breath.

In, two, three, four; out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four; out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four; out, two, three...

It raged. It raged and burned. It was alive--so alive! It was reaching further, burning higher, consuming more than it had before. It reveled. It celebrated. It ate hurriedly, knowing that it was moving too quickly--knowing that if it could only delay, the real pleasure would come, but it was irresistible. The chance was too much for it. Finally, after so long, to be free, unfettered, and fully alive. It was entirely whole, now that the boy had succumbed, now that his flame had returned to it; it had its full self at its disposal, its full capabilities. And what marvelous things it was capable of.

It could inspire the whole range of emotions: self-doubt, envy, anger, rage, desire, lust, obsession, gluttony, guilt, shame, pain, vindictiveness, schadenfreude, pride, self-satisfaction, fear, anxiety, paranoia, terror. They were terrified now, incredibly terrified. The whole world was burning. They were all burning. And more--it would have still more of them, until nothing but ash was left, and all was silent, and charred, and peaceful.

"Miss? Miss!"

Calina started, sucking in more air than she had intended. She looked up as she sputtered, "What? What do you want?" A thin nurse was standing above her, looking even shakier than Calina felt, but offering her a hand with a concerned expression.

"Your friend, miss. The doctor wants to talk to you." Calina stood and took the nurse's arm. "It's this way, dear. They put him in a private room, with the other one. The doctor wants to ask you a few questions."

"I really don't know anything," Calina protested. "I only met him tonight... we--well, he jumped... and he wrote this letter..." She suddenly realized how ridiculous the whole thing sounded. If she wasn't careful...

She pulled herself together. "His name's Nickolai. He fell into the river. I think he must have hit his head or something." She knew that if she just acted normal enough, they would assume that she was, and let her go home.

The nurse patted Calina's arm with her thin white fingers and opened the door to a private room, standing aside to let Calina enter. It was sterile and white with poor fluorescent lighting. Calina did not want to go inside, but forced herself across the threshold. Nickolai was asleep now, lying in a large metal hospital bed. He had tubes going into his arm and the doctor was adjusting a dial. The doctor turned around as the nurse shut the door and scurried off.

Calina yelped, "Doctor Ricks!"

"Calina? Calina, my dear! How do you know this young man?"

"I--I just met him, but you... don't you work at Saint James now? I mean, that's where I see you. Is Nickolai one of your patients or something?" She didn't give him time to answer her questions. "This is so weird. Everything is so weird."

She stumbled over to sit in a chair, putting her head beneath her knees and counting again as she breathed in and out. Calina felt overwhelmed. Now she'd never get out of here. Doctor Ricks would want to know everything and what could she possibly tell him? That she met some strange guy, hallucinated that he was on fire, watched him jump off of a bridge and then... then, that thing. She looked at Doctor Ricks, wanting him to say something, anything to get her out of this mess.

He seemed to understand what she needed. "Calina, dear, I'm sorry to upset you like this. You're right; Nickolai is an old patient of mine. I was a friend of his father. As it so happened, I was here consulting on another patient when you brought him in, that's all. Just tell me what happened to him and then I'll call Ben to come get you, okay?"

"Well, um... I was walking down the street and I saw him on the bridge. I think... he must have slipped. He fell into the river and I think he must have hit his head."

"But he didn't go under the water? He still swam to shore? Or did you go in after him?" Doctor Ricks was looking at her kindly, but she could tell he knew that she was lying.

"He... there was--a man. A big man. He dragged Nickolai out of the water."

"But he didn't help bring him here? The orderly said you were the only one with Nickolai when you came in."

Calina didn't understand why Doctor Ricks was asking so many questions. She tried to think, looking around the room. It was a double room, but the curtains hid its other occupant. She got up, curious; needing something to do while she figured out what to say, she drew back the curtain. The other patient was a man, very thin, almost wasted away. His face was screwed up and he was sweating, dreaming fretfully. Calina looked closer; there was something about his face...