On Fire

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In Jackson’s room, everything happened in a blur.

Something shattered the window as it shot through it fast and hard. The projectile hit Ski Mask hard in the head. As he toppled, his gun went off with a loud bang. Gravelly Voice started yelling and dove to the floor.

Rescue!

Lydia didn’t hesitate.

She bolted.

Wordlessly, she charged out of Jackson’s room, skidding around a corner as Gravelly Voice bellowed and let fly with a barrage of swearing. Panting, she dashed for the front door just as it burst open. Danny had on his lacrosse padding and Damon was wearing Danny’s helmet. There was a ball in the pocket of Danny’s lacrosse stick and he shot it hard in the direction she had just come. Lightning fast, he grabbed another one out of the equipment bag.

“Get in my car!” Danny yelled.

Lydia made for Danny’s Lexus. The engine was running and the doors were open. They’d planned it out well. Just as she fell into the passenger-side front seat, Danny and Damon flew back out and raced across the courtyard.

Danny turned and shot another ball. Lydia didn’t see where it landed. She didn’t really look. As Danny leaped into the car, she said, “Call 911.”

Danny screeched the car backward. The security gate crept open slowly and as they waited, Danny pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Lydia.

“We heard them talking about accomplices,” Damon said. Then Gravelly Voice flew out the front door toward them and Danny floored the car. It just cleared the end of the gate and then Danny put the car in drive as Lydia punched in 911.

The dispatcher answered. On speaker, Lydia told her what had happened, and that the thieves told her they’d planted spies all through Beacon Hills to kill her if she escaped. The dispatcher asked her if there was an alternate route she could take. The woman had the map up and described various streets to Lydia, suggesting that perhaps they could take the road that led to the south.

Toward Beacon Hills Preserve.

“What if there are shooters waiting for us?” Lydia demanded, looking at Danny. He didn’t take his eyes off the road. In the back, Damon was sliding from the left side of the car to the right and back again, looking for guys with guns.

“We’re sending squad cars,” the dispatcher assured her. “Proceed with caution, but get out of there. I’m staying on the line with you.”

Lydia looked at Damon. “Do you have your cell?” He nodded. “Call Jackson.”

“Get out of there! Get out!” Bailey shouted into the phone. Then he swore long and hard as he punched in another number.

“Mack, it’s falling apart,” Bailey bellowed. “Someone shot Del and the girl got away.”

Lydia, Jackson thought. He looked up at Cassie, who was ashen. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, then jerked them away as if she’d been branded when he winced. Fresh tears cascaded down her face and she began to sob.

“Bailey, pull over. Let this boy go. Then we can drive away right now and nobody will find us.” She sounded as if she knew she was lying. Jackson wondered if Bailey was still wearing his ski mask. He still hadn’t see Bailey’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, and Cassie pressed her hands over it again.

“I look like a million girls. I barely said two words to him. It’ll be okay.”

Bailey was silent for a moment. Then he said, “No loose ends.”

Jackson stiffened. There was no way he was going down without a fight.

“Help me,” he whispered very softly, not sure she could hear him.

“If you kill him, and they catch us, I might never see you again,” she said desperately. “Please, please let him go. You’re not a killer.”

Bailey didn’t answer. Cassie kept crying.

“Stop it!” Bailey shouted at her. “I can’t hear myself think.”

Then they heard a siren in the distance. Disoriented, his head throbbing, Jackson couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from. But the van turned sharply; brakes squealed, and Jackson tried to take advantage and get away from Cassie. But she held him tightly.

“That siren’s coming from the north,” Bailey said. “It’s not for us. No one knows where we are. But we have to turn around and go back the way we came. As soon as we get some distance, we’ll have to take care of the situation.”

Cassie sobbed for what seemed to Jackson a long time. She put her finger against Jackson’s lips. She’d promised to help him, but he was beginning to wonder if she had the backbone to stand up to Bailey. He remembered what she’d said to him in the preserve. She wanted out. Maybe he could help convince her to get out.

“Cassie?” Bailey said sharply.

“Where are we going?” she asked him. “We can’t just . . . do it anywhere.”

“Maybe we should do it in the van,” he replied. “Like right now.”

Jackson watched her shaking her head to herself, eyes shutting tightly. She seemed to age years in seconds.

“There are too many cars on the road. Someone will trace the license plate. Maybe we can get back to the preserve,” she said. “Meet back up with Mack. Leave this guy there with his Porsche and drive to Mexico, like we planned.”

“Maybe it sounds like you’re more worried about making sure this guy is okay instead of worrying about us,” Bailey said.

“No, baby, of course not,” she said quickly.

She fixed Jackson with a serious expression. Then she reached into a pocket in her jacket and pulled out a cell phone, making sure Jackson saw it.

“How’s he doing, anyway?” Bailey asked.

“Out cold,” she said. “I hope he’s not dead already.”

“Why? That would solve the problem,” Bailey retorted.

“You didn’t used to be like this,” she said through her tears.

There was a silence. Then he said, “Yeah, I did. You just didn’t know it.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered brokenly. “But you said—”

“I said a few things,” Bailey cut in. “That didn’t mean all of them were true. But I said I loved you, and that is the truth.”

“Okay,” she ground out.

She was clearly in agony. She cried some more, with her entire body. Then she took a deep breath and punched in a number. Jackson couldn’t see it, but there were only three numbers: 911? He couldn’t hear it ringing. Good thing; then Bailey wouldn’t, either.

“Hold on, hanging a sharp left,” Bailey said.

The sound of the siren had receded. So no one was coming after them. Or Bailey was outrunning them.

Cassie thumbed in a message on her phone and turned the display window toward Jackson. She had opened her text-messaging bubble and written: No handcuff key

He nodded. She typed in more.

Going to push open door. Jump out w u.

His eyes widened. Jump out of a moving vehicle into traffic? He started to shake his head, but he thought about the option: getting shot. He didn’t have any recourse, did he?

He pictured himself in traction in a hospital. A doctor telling him to forget lacrosse. To forget walking.

Then he imagined himself lying in a coffin with all his friends gathered around, gazing down at him. Lydia sobbing, “At least they were able to conceal the bullet wound.”

He thought about the pain of being hit by a car. It was kind of ironic for a guy who played lacrosse to worry about that.

Have to move fast, Cassie typed.

Bailey’s phone rang, and Cassie jumped a mile. Then she stared down at Jackson and gave him a little nod. She slipped her cell phone into the pocket of his letter jacket.

“Yeah, Mack,” Bailey said.

“Now!” Cassie shouted.

Jackson sat upright and pushed himself back against the seat while Cassie dove past him, grabbing at the door handle. She got it to start sliding open when a shot rang out. Jackson looked up to see Bailey aiming his gun at the two of them.

“What the hell?” Bailey shouted.

“No!” she shrieked.

The door slid back, and Cassie put her arm around Jackson’s neck, preparing to pull him out with the momentum of her drop as she leaped out of the van. He could see that it wasn’t going to work.

There was another shot, and Cassie screamed and slumped. Blood spurted everywhere, coating the inside of the van, and Jackson. Bailey screamed almost as frantically at Cassie and the car began to zigzag wildly down the road. Jackson folded himself over Cassie, trying to make himself less of a target while at the same time shielding her. He had never been so afraid in his life, even when he’d been in the video store and he had found the dead clerk.

“Cassie!” Bailey cried.

The van sped up and bumped and jumped over what felt like acres of stones. Jackson rotated his head and stared through the open door. They had circled back to the preserve, but they were nowhere near the parking lot. He didn’t know where they were.

“Get away from her,” Bailey yelled at Jackson. He sounded crazed, frantic. “Don’t touch her!”

Then the van crashed.

Time stopped as the windshield exploded and metal screeched and folded. A body-slamming jolt smashed Jackson backward, whipping back his already-aching head. Cassie’s body cushioned his own as he pitched forward against the back of the front seat, instinctively tucking in his head.

He blacked out for a second, then came to as a shower of glass rained down on him and Cassie. She didn’t react.

He smelled gas.

And smoke.

Still handcuffed, Jackson tried to get out, but Cassie was in the way. He strained to lift himself back into the seat for better traction with his feet and saw a roiling billow of thick, gray smoke churning into the open van door. Orange flames licked on the side closest to the back of the van, where the gas tank was, and he began to panic. Cassie lay motionless across his lap. It was very quiet in the front seat. Jackson wondered if Bailey was dead. He so very totally hoped so.

“Cassie, Cassie,” he said.

She stirred, moaning. “Bailey,” she whispered.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Jackson said.

“You’re not Bailey,” Cassie slurred.

“We have to get out of the van,” Jackson said. “I’m pinned beneath you. The van’s on fire.”

“I can’t feel anything. I’m so cold,” Cassie said.

“The van’s on fire,” Jackson said again. “Get me out of here. I didn’t do anything to you people. I don’t deserve this.”

“Where’s Bailey?” She began to move, but very slowly. She was so bloody.

“Get us out and we can help him,” Jackson said. He would have said anything to get to safety.

Then she sort of threw herself toward the van door and fell out onto the ground. Jackson was freaked out by the smears of blood all over him. His neck was throbbing and his shoulders hurt as if someone was pulling them out of their sockets. Grinding his teeth in agony, he inched his way out through the doorway and fell next to Cassie, who sprawled with her arms and legs bent all wrong, inert.

“Get up,” Jackson said, forcing himself to his knees. He looked down at her as he struggled to his feet. Her eyes were glassy, half open. He didn’t know if she was dead. The back of the van was engulfed in rolling orange and scarlet flames. The heat blistered his face.

“Help me,” he shouted, pivoting in a circle.

“Bailey,” Cassie said faintly. Then, flatly, “Jackson.”

“Did you call 911?” Jackson asked her. She was lying in a pool of her own blood. Her phone was in his pocket. “Did you call them?” He didn’t know if they would come if you couldn’t actually tell them where you were. Did they have ways to track cell phones?

“Jackson, we have to save Bailey,” she said.

Like hell, Jackson thought. So he can kill us both?

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Call 911 and we can do that.”

“We have to save him,” she insisted.

“We will. After you call 911,” he repeated. “And we need to get the handcuff key. Do you know where it is?”

“Bailey,” she said. Then her eyes fluttered shut.

“Jackson’s phone is ringing,” Damon reported. “He’s not answering.”

“We think my boyfriend’s been kidnapped by these people,” Lydia told the dispatcher. “He’s Jackson Whittemore. They were robbing his house. Can you patch into his phone and find out where he is?”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have the ability to do that,” the dispatcher said.

“But there’s an app,” Lydia said. “I can give you his user ID and password.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that,” the dispatcher said. “But please tell me everything you can about the kidnapping.”

“I’m downloading Where’s My Phone onto my phone,” Damon reported. “It’ll take a few minutes.”

“Hurry,” Lydia told Damon’s phone. “Please.”

“The units are on their way, miss,” the dispatcher told her.

It was Thursday, two days before Wolf Moon. Derek’s relatives had gathered in the Hale house for the reunion. Derek was in charge of moving out all the furniture and breakables in the underground chamber so that the werewolves among them could den together for the next few days and nights. Sleeping bags, air mattresses, and cots were brought in, and they would let their wolf sides out to savor the bonding. The chamber was festively decorated for the occasion with large stone vases containing bouquets of lilies, roses, and iris, traditional flowers of France. The evocative scent of rosemary, another native French plant, filled the room. On Saturday, Derek would challenge Josh in human form; then, after the moon rose, they would vie for status as wolves.

Still without a car, Derek had managed to wrangle his Uncle Peter’s motorcycle from him, and he left the chamber with his helmet on his hip, preparing to ride to school. Laura, who was driving the Subaru, was sipping coffee as she walked to the car.

“Do you think I should ask Dad about giving Kate the Bite?” Derek whispered, not wanting any of his relatives to overhear.

Laura shook her head. “It’s too soon. You haven’t known her long enough. Maybe next year.” She sat down behind the wheel and set her coffee in the drink holder. Then she shut the door.

“You don’t think it’s going to last, do you,” Derek said, poking his head through the open window.

His sister let out a sigh and cupped his cheek. People said they looked so much like each other that they could be twins.

“I think you’re crazy in love with her,” she replied. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad. She’s human, but we have human family members. Maybe she’s doing a cougar on you. I don’t know,” she added quickly, as he opened his mouth to protest. “But you are going to have to tell Dad about her soon. This is getting serious.”

“I will,” Derek promised.

He knew he should have told his father about Kate—he didn’t call her Ms. Argent anymore—way before now. Maybe he should have requested permission before he’d given Kate the ring she now wore. It wasn’t an engagement ring or anything like that, just a token of how he felt about her. It was gold-plated and set with green stones, the best he could afford when he still didn’t actually have a job. His Uncle Peter had given him some money in return for running a few errands.

He rode to school, got through classes, then did his laps with Kate until she’d put in her lifeguard hours. And then he went home with her. Within minutes of closing the door, the only thing she wore was his ring. They fell into each others’ arms and made soulful, passionate love. She had taught him how to please her, and he did everything imaginable to her. In return, she aroused him to such heights that he had to turn away to hide the glow in his eyes, the lengthening of his teeth. He wanted to make love with her as a werewolf; he dreamed of it constantly, even though what they did now was more pleasurable than he had ever imagined.

Spent and exhausted, they would drowse together, and Derek would hear the call of the moon. He longed to run with her beneath its glow. He would prop himself up on his elbow, running his fingertips along her hair, staring at her, choked with love.

“I love you, Kate,” he would whisper, but only when she was fast asleep.

That night, he had planned to ask her if she was going to chaperone the homecoming dance. He never went to anything at school, but Laura did, and she had suggested that he attend stag. All her girlfriends wanted to hang out with him and she was tired of disappointing them. He figured it was Laura’s way of trying to get him interested in girls his own age, even if they were human.

He would have said no on the spot, but if Kate went as a chaperone, then at least they could see each other. Derek didn’t dance, but the thought of seeing her in a formal gown would make enduring all the rest of it worthwhile.

But Kate was asleep, and he didn’t want to wake her. He got up, showered, and dressed. She was still fast asleep when he got on his motorcycle.

He was nearly all the way home when he realized he had forgotten his school backpack. He called her. There was no answer. He tried again. Finally he turned around and rode back. He hated to bother her, but he knocked on the door—he didn’t have a key—and she didn’t answer. He rang the bell, and waited. He lowered his hand, not sure what to do.

Then he smelled her strong, wonderful scent, and moved to her bedroom window, cracked slightly open. He slid it open farther, removed the screen, and crawled inside.