Chapter 17 - The Circle of Fire
*Flick.*
The small orange flame of the Zippo jumped to life in Bradley’s hand, casting flickering shadows against the oil paintings in the foyer.
I had three seconds.
If that lighter touched the kerosene-soaked rug, the vertical draft of the stairwell would turn the upper floor into a chimney within forty-five seconds. The old pine framing beneath the plaster would combust like kindling.
I didn't shout. I didn't plead.
I launched myself down the stairs.
My bare feet hit the runner, skipping three steps at a time. Bradley heard the rustle of my movement and spun, raising the machete, his eyes widening as he tried to bring the blade across my path.
I didn't try to block the steel. I swung the weighted hickory stick with the full torque of my hips, striking Bradley’s wrist precisely where the median nerve crosses the bone.
A sickening *crack* echoed through the hall.
Bradley shrieked, dropping the machete. But as he fell back, the open Zippo slipped from his nerveless fingers.
It struck the edge of the soaked carpet.
*WHOOSH.*
A wall of blue-and-yellow flame erupted with a concussive roar, knocking both of us backward. The heat was instantaneous and blinding, singing my eyelashes and blistering the skin of my forearms as I threw my arms up to shield my face.
The fire raced along the kerosene trails, climbing the antique mahogany newel post like a living serpent, roaring toward the ceiling. Thick, oily black smoke began to billow, pooling against the crown molding and descending in a suffocating cloud.
Bradley was on his hands and knees, clutching his shattered wrist, screaming incoherently as the flames licked at the cuffs of his jeans.
"Get up!" I roared over the crackling fury of the blaze, lunging through the fringe of fire and grabbing him by the collar of his canvas coat.
"Let me die!" he sobbed, thrashing against me, his sanity completely shattered. "It’s over! It's all gone!"
"Not in my house," I snarled.
I hauled him to his feet by sheer adrenaline, dragging him toward the heavy front door. But the flames had already jumped to the draperies flanking the entrance, creating an impassable curtain of white-hot fire. The front exit was sealed.
Smoke hit my lungs, sharp and toxic, triggering a violent coughing spasm that dropped me to one knee. Bradley collapsed beside me, curling into a fetal position as the temperature in the foyer climbed toward five hundred degrees.
*The library.*
Grandmother Eleanor had installed French doors in the library that opened directly onto the side stone terrace.
I grabbed Bradley by the collar again, hauling his dead weight across the floorboards. The fire was behind us, chewing through the parlor walls, the structural timbers groaning under the sudden thermal shock. Sparks rained down like incandescent snow.
I kicked the library door open, dragged Bradley inside, and slammed the door shut behind us to buy forty seconds of air.
The library was dark, save for the orange glow bleeding through the seams of the wooden door. I dragged Bradley across the Persian rugs toward the tall glass French doors.
I reached for the brass handle.
It was chained from the outside.
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A heavy, zinc-plated transport chain was wrapped four times through the exterior handles, secured with an industrial disc padlock.
Bradley hadn't just come to burn the house down. He had come to ensure no one left it alive.
