The sun hung blood red just above the horizon for a impossibly long age, as if time itself had stopped to admire its breathtaking beauty. Then slowly, hesitantly, as if trying the water of a bath that she knew would be just a little too hot, the vast orb slid behind the edge of the earth, winked one last good-bye, and was gone.
It was 8:45 according to the dimly glowing clock in the dash of the car. Richard, much relieved physically and mentally from the burden of day, was at last heading north in the still-bright twilight on the final leg of his journey. Faithfully adhering to Stephanie's instruction, he would arrive at her house in the usual manner of past visits, about twenty minutes after sunset, which was how long it took him to get there from New Karnak.
He'd spent the endless-seeming hours alternately healing from his initial journey and restlessly pacing the penthouse in between bouts of research at his computer. The first thing he checked was the e-mail, but no new message awaited him from Stephanie. Disappointing, that. And worry-making. Next he scoured any and all sources available to him for a location on Alejandro Trujillo. The latest unsecured intel had it that he was still in Colombia. No surprises there, also no real confirmation. He would certainly want to stay away from any country that had arrest warrants out for him, but it was not beyond possibility that he could be in the States to personally see to his brother's disposal.
Richard had never been overly impressed with monitoring operations on the drug lords, anyway. A return to some sort of old-fashioned method of reprisal might be more preferable and practical. If it was indeed a war on drugs, then would it not be in one's best interest to try to knock out the generals of the opposing side? The cartels had no restraints when it came to brutally removing their enemies, after all.
Not my problem, thought Richard, though in his own small area of focus he planned to be most conclusive. If Alejandro ever came within his reach he would take some sort of swift—and quite final—action against him. A threat to Luis was a threat to Stephanie and her children. To protect them Richard could and would cheerfully rip Alejandro to shreds.
But he fervently hoped this call from her would only be a false alarm.
He'd resisted the impulse to openly announce his presence to Arhyn-Hill Oil. He owned it, but preferred to turn the actual running of the business over to the specialists. Occasionally he would come down to check on things and remind his CEOs of his existence, but that always stirred things up. Luis worked there and if he was being watched, then it was better for him that Richard continue with a low profile. On the other hand, were this a regular visit, he would always phone Luis, letting him know he was in town. If only Stephanie had provided more information on how best to proceed.
Someone in building security did notice that the penthouse flat was in use, and sent a man up to check. A few hypnotic moments with the fellow were enough to assure Richard a continuance of uninterrupted privacy. By the time he took the elevator down to the garage, all but the live-in tenants had gone home, so his evening departure went as unmarked as his arrival.
There'd been improvements made on the old county highway since his last sojourn. It was now four lanes and boasted stoplights at the infrequent intersections. For now they only blinked a cautionary yellow, but that looked to be short-lived. Developers were encroaching on once empty fields, and would soon turn farm and grazing land into clusters of apartment complexes the same as those that covered the more urban areas like fungus. When he'd first hidden Stephanie and her family here, the area had been wonderfully isolated, the land little changed from the days of the earliest European explorers. In another year it would be covered with concrete, strip malls, and petrol stations.
But all was empty in the descending darkness for the time being, and now and then his headlights only picked out a startled rabbit darting for cover. He sped by a fearful mess in the center of the road that had once been an armadillo. Odd how one never actually saw the creatures scuttling across to meet with their violent end, only their remains long after the fact. He held his breath until the brief fog of decay cleared from the car.
He slowed for a turn onto a narrow and much older side road and followed it for a mile, then made a final turn-off to a deeply rutted dirt track. The rental bumped badly from side to side, suspension creaking and complaining, tires throwing up huge clouds of pale dust in the darkness. Fifty yards in, amid a wild stand of mesquite, he was obliged to get out to open a gate, drive through, and shut it again. Was this the gate Stephanie had referred to in her first message? Perhaps one of the children had strayed from the house, left it open, and chose not to confess the crime. Michael was a likely suspect, being the oldest and most adventuresome, but Elena and Seraphina were more than capable of egging each other on to great feats of mischief.
He hoped that was all there was to it, just a series of coincidences misinterpreted.
But his dream . . . that damned dream had left him paranoid. When it came to such matters it was better to listen to such nagging fears than dismiss them outright. He would take a little extra time and check things thoroughly before going up to knock on the front door.
The road climbed a slight hill within the property, and Richard pulled to a stop just before topping its flat crest, killed the lights and motor, and got out. He finally divested himself of his drover's coat, hat, and leather gloves, stowing them on the passenger seat. It felt like he'd shed a too heavy and much too tight skin. By contrast the stagnant leftover heat of the day almost seemed chill. Everything was silent save the incessant hum and chirp of the insects, and the air was gently scented with sage, soothing and caressing to his senses. He did not relax, though. Except for being dark, it was still disturbingly like his dream.
Clinging to the edge of the thorny trees, he followed the line of the track down the other side of the hill. Really, it was hardly high enough to be dignified with such a label, but it did serve as a physical buffer between the house and the outside world. One last turning and he caught sight of the satellite structures: a low barn with its corrugated metal roof and attached corral, the pump house, the propane tank. In the backyard on lovingly transplanted grass stood a clothesline and a scattering of brightly colored toys, a swing set, a battered plastic play fort and this year's splashing pool.
Quiet. As it should be.
He made a wide stealthy circle of the entire yard, senses alert for the least sight, the softest sound of intruders, and was greatly relieved when nothing out of the ordinary presented itself. The horses dozing in the corral canted their ears in his direction, but didn't bother to stir. Having the space to indulge her childhood passion, Stephanie had acquired a tiny herd of her own and even dabbled in breeding. She'd sent him many pictures of the children at play on their pony. He couldn't see it offhand and guessed it to be stabled in the barn away from its larger quarter-horse cousins.
A few lights were on in the house down below; it looked normal and peaceful. The sight inspired a flood of memories from that first evening when he'd brought Stephanie here. He'd had every window shining a warm yellow welcome for her arrival.
It had been a long trip from Toronto. They'd traveled for five days, taking a very roundabout route and twice changing vehicles. On the last leg, they'd driven to Kansas, left the cars completely and flown in to D/FW on a charter. Richard had a van waiting for them at the airport and hustled the whole family inside. Luis was worried, the children were fussy and confused, but Stephanie was calm, rising above the clamor with her serenity. Richard understood it to mean that no matter what the circumstances she trusted him to take care of them all. She soothed the girls and talked Richard into a stop for some fast food. That got even Michael settled, putting them in a better mood for moving into a house they'd never before seen.
Richard was fairly confident they would like the place. The outside looked rough, being built completely of logs that glowed golden in the moonlight, the chinking between them yellow-gray with age. It appeared somewhat forbidding in its sturdiness, but the interior was a gem. He'd seen to it himself by hiring a decorator and letting her have her way with updating things. Stephanie would have been grateful for a dirt-floored hovel so long as her family was safe, but it pleased him more than he cared to admit to be able to escort her to a modern Aladdin's cave. If she had to spend the rest of her life in hiding, at least it would be in comfortable surroundings.
Tired from the trip, she moved slowly, and he helped her down from the van as Luis, carrying the twins, walked with young Michael toward the house. Stephanie paused and smiled breathtakingly at Richard, and for a moment he wondered if she was pregnant again, for he thought how true it was that a woman looked even more beautiful in the full bloom of childbearing. And his heart broke a little more. It did not matter her condition, he would always see her in such radiance. He held her hand just a little too long as she steadied herself and smoothed her dress. She only smiled gently at him again, squeezed his fingers, and turned away. Luis was watching from the freshly painted blue door of the house.
Once inside Stephanie had been like a little girl at Christmas, going from room to room, gasping in delight at the rough-hewn wood and heavy low ceilings, and laughing out loud at the apparently antiquated plumbing. The place had been built in the hip seventies by an oil baron wishing to appease his young back-to-nature, flower-child wife, hence the log cabin look in a landscape where large trees were an oddity. He'd imported the lot from out of state, added many additional rooms and filled them with faux Spanish fixtures and shag carpeting. The decorator had thankfully removed those shards of bad taste, but left intact the huge fireplace in the main living room, made of fieldstone and artistically crooked. She'd replaced the hideous avocado kitchen with faux antique fixtures, including a large glowering range, black and dully gleaming, but using propane instead of wood fuel.
Stephanie took joy in everything, allocating rooms as she went, Michael running ahead to call her on to fresh discoveries. She busied herself settling Elena and Seraphina in their new nursery.
That left Richard in the company of Luis. Neither man had avoided or ignored the other for the duration of the journey, both giving and getting courtesy. It had still been uncomfortable, but they'd made the best of things. Richard could respect the man's effort, and found himself unbending a bit.
It had to do with his intimate familiarity with the dynamics of temptation and threat. As both qualities had been amply manifested in and expressed by dear brother Alejandro, Luis's mistake of giving in to him was understandable. He'd committed a crime, but wasn't a criminal at heart, only weak. And frightened.
Would I have done differently were our positions reversed? Richard wasn't sure. It had been centuries since he'd humbled himself for the last time before the long departed Ambert.
Luis seemed distracted and stood alone before the cold fireplace, hands in his pockets, looking bleak and lost. He had committed that most grievous of sins in the drug community: he had gone straight, and worse, had tried to make amends by supplying the authorities with valuable information. The cartels had bled steadily as a result. The men who were after him were not to be trifled with, especially Alejandro. When Luis started to inform against his brother, Alejandro's reaction had been predictable and unwisely public. He'd openly sworn—from the safety of his Colombian fortress—that he would kill Luis like a dog, and a contract had been issued. The largest in cartel history, word had it. No wonder Luis stood closed off from his family and simply stared, dark eyes seeing nothing.
"It will be all right," Richard told him, hoping he was not lying.
"You think so?" There was justified doubt in his question.
"So far as it is in my power to make things safe. Bourland's people had us well covered in Toronto. Anyone watching your old house will think you're still there."
Luis gave an expressive shrug, shaking his head. "Alejandro is no fool and he does not hire fools, only uses them. Like me. They will find out I'm gone soon enough."
"You did the right thing, Luis."
"So everyone tells me, but if I'd kept quiet—"
"You'd be in jail."
"Or safe in Columbia."
"And in thrall to Alejandro for the rest of your life."
"You think this is any different?"
"Oh, yes. Very different."
"How?"
"Because here you can look your wife and children in the eyes without shame."
That made Luis pause. He even managed a small, fleeting smile in acknowledgment of the point, but still had practical worries to voice. "Alejandro is not one to give up. He always had to win even when we were little. He would not stop playing a game until he'd won."
"That may be so, but he has no pieces now with which to play. You have very effectively vanished."
Luis gave a soft snort. "What a good mood he will be in then. He will never cease looking until he's found us."
"Do you think if you spoke with him he'd change his mind? Sometimes a face-to-face talk can change—"
Now Luis barked out a soft laugh. "You are too much the optimist, friend Richard. Where I come from this is a matter of honor and blood. It is no concern that what Alejandro does breaks the law, but it is a great concern that I have broken faith with him. I betrayed my own brother to ruin. He deserves it, but in his world I am the one who is the traitor."
"Then it's best to be removed from such a world. Would you wish your children to learn such twisted rules?"
Luis shook his head and paced slowly across the room, taking it in, perhaps, for the first time. He stopped by a large wraparound sofa that faced an equally large entertainment center. It was not unlike the way Stephanie had arranged things back in her Canada home. Richard had an eye for detail and even managed to provide video tapes of their favorite films and a few CDs and books in the hope their familiarity would ease the shock of moving, of leaving nearly everything behind. To judge by the squeals now coming from the children's playroom, Michael had discovered the cache of toys and storybooks scattered there. Like many other items in the house everything was new, still in their plastic wrappings, but Richard didn't think the child would mind. Michael always took such savage joy tearing into presents it seemed a shame to deprive him of it.
"Daddydaddydaddy!" The boy rushed screaming into the room, his arms full of treasure. He held a stuffed elephant nearly his own size, tripped and fell on it. The plush beast broke his fall, and he was too excited to remember to cry at the sudden tumble. He struggled to his feet holding the animal high trying to show it off to his father.
Luis looked to instantly wake out of his glum mood and gave his undivided attention to his little son. He exclaimed over the toy and tried to coax Michael into correctly pronouncing the word "elephant." The child had inherited his mother's blue eyes but not her dark hair. His pale blond cap had come from her Nordic forebears, the trait having skipped a generation with her. Elena and Seraphina were the same. The childrens' skin had just the faintest dusky hue from their father's side. It would tan dark beneath the Texas sun. When the infant girls became young women they would be even more stunning than Stephanie.
God, they were all so tiny, yet growing so fast. Richard took in the moment from far across the room feeling both joy and the harsh stab of relentless sorrow. Sabra had warned him against attachments, but how could he avoid them? It was his lot to look on their ephemeral lives and know that in a few short decades they would be grown up, grown old, and die. How wonderful it was to see the beginnings, and how heartbreaking to watch the long, agonizing decline. Out of necessity to his own sanity he'd learned to push such dismal anticipations away and live as best he could in the present, but sometimes that was damned difficult. It was only thin comfort to him that however temporary their time was on earth he could try to make it happy for them.
Michael galloped away again, and as quickly returned, this time holding high a red plastic airplane and making appropriate buzzing noises. He'd been highly impressed with the flight from Kansas, his great blue eyes taking in every detail. He was bright for his age and had a talent for charming people, confiding to his father he would fly planes when he grew up. A week earlier he'd wanted to be a soccer champion.
He looked up at Luis and asked, "Is it Christmas? Can I keep the toys?"
Luis automatically corrected the boy's grammar and confirmed everything was his to keep. This was greeted with a piping cheer, then he rushed off to find his mother. The room seemed smaller after his noisy exodus. Luis stared after him in the abrupt silence, his face somber, his eyes unblinking like the dead.
"The children will be all right, too," said Richard, guessing Luis's thoughts.
He looked up sharply. His mouth twitched in a grimace. "I can hope for that . . . and thank you for this." He raised one hand to indicate the house. "But I know you would not do all this for me alone."
"Probably not," Richard admitted.
"And thus by default I am in a debt to you I cannot hope to repay. I have nothing."
Richard shook his head. Time to give his own reassurance to this man who did not seem to remember the priceless worth of what remained to him. "You have Stephanie. And you always will."
Another sharp look from Luis. At last a tiny spark of life returned to his dark eyes. What was that? Resentment or triumph? Both? He was certainly entitled. And he yet held some lingering jealousy toward Richard. He could be civilized and pretend otherwise, but couldn't altogether hide it.
But you were the one to walk away with Stephanie. If only you would realize that. Even if you were gone, she'd still not have me.
Richard sighed and this time did not try to conceal his own sorrow. "Luis, you possess everything that I can never hope to have: a wonderful wife who loves you dearly and three sweet, beautiful children who adore their father. If you want to pay me back, then make them as happy as possible. Give to them that which I cannot and never will be able to give myself."
Then Luis dropped his gaze, and that was the end of the matter.
That evening they'd had a minor celebration, Stephanie readily making use of the supplies in her new kitchen. Richard could not imbibe or ingest with the rest, but played with Michael, distracting him from the adult tensions he must have sensed, but was unable to understand. The boy was especially receptive to such things, and picked up on the underlying brittleness to the general cheer as his parents' future was discussed over his head.
In a few days Luis would begin his new job at Arhyn-Hill Oil—working under another, quite different last name in an executive position that Richard had arranged for him. Whether it was coffee or oil, business was business, and Luis would soon be immersed into his new duties and earning a guilt-free living. Stephanie eventually planned to work there as well when she thought the girls were old enough to face the rigors of daycare with a minimum of trauma.
The party did not last long. They were all tired. Stephanie insisted that Richard make use of the guest room, and he gave in for just the one night. All was quiet, or nearly so. Awake and listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the country he became aware of other, equally primal sounds coming from the master bedroom far down the hall. Weary as they undoubtedly were, Luis had summoned enough energy to reaffirm his husband's claim over Stephanie.
Richard had rolled over in his own bed, crammed a pillow against his ear, and bitterly regretted his decision to stay.
How sharp the memories were in their pain and pleasure despite the intervening years. Time was supposed to cure things like that. For Richard it generally did—when he could bring himself to let things go. He'd not been able to do that with Stephanie.
The house itself sat indifferently defiant, built to outlast man and the elements, its heavy outline picked out by the security lights that Luis had installed himself. The huddled outbuildings were silent, deserted in the night. Scanning the scene minutely, Richard spotted nothing out of the ordinary, and concentrating with his unnaturally acute hearing, could detect nothing wrong. Most reassuring.
He pressed flat against the wall of the barn, hidden by the deep shadows cast by the lights around the house. The horses dozed contentedly, and mice scurried on their busy way. Again he listened and heard nothing untoward from the surrounding area. If any humans were about, he'd have found them by now. He turned his attention full upon the house.
The glow of a light peeped out between wooden shutters in what was the master bedroom, and now that he was closer, he could pick out the thin wailing strains of a steel guitar across the night air. Stephanie must have gone completely native. She'd not expressed much interest in country music when they'd been together.
Satisfied that it was safe to approach, he quit his concealment and went back to retrieve the car. If he just walked up to the house now and banged on the door it might startle them unnecessarily, especially Stephanie. It would be better for her no-doubt-strained nerves that she first hear the sound of his approach. She'd insisted that he come as though it were one of his normal visits, and now that he'd scouted things, he saw no reason not to comply with her wish.
He pulled up some yards away, close to the carport where her new minivan was parked. Luis's sedan was missing, indicating he wasn't yet home. Perhaps he'd stopped on some after-work errand. He'd not be far behind in his own arrival, then. Richard hoped this wouldn't create complications for Stephanie later. Luis would put on a show of welcome, as he always did, but he'd not be too pleased to see the ex-boyfriend in his house, or to hear the reason why. He might resent her calling for help without first discussing it. Or asking permission.
Richard cared nothing for that thought and shoved it away.
He strolled onto the porch, boots noisy against the wood. He half expected the door to be pulled open by Stephanie before he had the chance to knock, but it remained shut. Its once proud blue was quite faded by the unremitting sun, its iron hinges rusted and brown. No blood flowed from them or from the cracks in the wood, he noted with much relief. Damn that dream, anyway.
The music changed, grew louder. It was Willie Nelson crooning out "The Healing Hands of Time." How appropriate. Having been at the receiving end of heartbreak on many, many occasions in his long life, Richard had a vivid understanding and appreciation for the themes of country music. Odd that he could hear it so clearly, though.
Then he noticed that the front door was open. There was a half-inch gap between it and the frame. He felt the cool breath of the central air conditioning escaping into the outside heat.
Mouth dry and fully alert to any waiting ambush, he gave the iron handle on the door a push. His heart sank as the great slab of wood creaked gently open. The entry was but dimly lighted and apparently empty.
Several possibilities ran through his mind, one of which being that the family had left in haste and forgotten to secure things. A foolish idea, but he preferred to grasp at such fragile straws than anticipate anything worse.
Well, if anyone was inside ready to spring upon him, they'd have long heard him by now. No need to be stealthy at this point.
"Stephanie?"
That damn dream again. He'd called to her in just that manner, loud enough for the whole house to hear. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end from the memory.
"Luis? Michael?" There, that broke the pattern.
When no reply came, he moved fast—at the kind of unnatural speed only he could attain. In less than an eye blink he was inside, back pressed against a wall, every nerve alert, every sense straining for information.
Nothing. Only the faint hum of the air conditioning and Willie Nelson with a lush string accompaniment.
Wait, now . . . there was a scent hanging in the entry air. Very faint, with an artificial, chemical quality. Innocuous, but out of place. He couldn't quite identify it. He didn't dismiss it so much as register the puzzlement and put it aside for the moment.
He moved farther into the house, leaving the front door wide. The living room was lighted up, but deserted, as was the hall connecting it to the dining and kitchen areas. The music came from the back of the place.
Another smell abruptly intruded upon him. This one much stronger, very identifiable and entirely alarming. Propane gas. He moved toward the kitchen, taking a deep breath before going in. The deadly smothering stink was so strong that even in the hall he almost gagged. He entered, careful not to flick on the overhead light. He picked out the stove controls in the dimness. They were all on high, the pilot lights blown out.
He cut everything off fast and eased open the back door to allow in fresh air, looking out. Nothing to see, but instinct told him that someone was probably out there watching from cover. Whoever had done the mischief couldn't be far away. The valves hadn't been open for more than a few minutes or else Richard would have detected the explosive poison when first he came in. Perhaps the intruder had gone out the back the moment Richard stepped onto the front porch.
Was that the trap? For him to rush in here, turn on the light, and let the electrical spark do the rest? Possibly, but it was too sloppy, too uncertain.
And there was that other smell . . .
The propane could have been meant to cover it, to keep him from noticing. No normal human would have picked it up, though. A feint, then, a minor distraction to get him stirred up and off balance.
"Stephanie? Where are you?"
He remembered the glow from the master bedroom's window and quit the kitchen, moving fast and silent over the carpeted floor. Just because he couldn't sense anyone else there didn't mean that the house had to be empty. If they kept very, very quiet . . .
Willie's voice grew stronger, as did that almost-familiar odor.
The only light breaking the interior gloom was a narrow streak showing out from the bottom of the bedroom door. All the other doors opening onto the hall—the children's rooms, the bath, an office—gaped onto darkness.
Trap, he thought, his hand resting on the doorknob. Who was on the other side? One of Alejandro's hired assassins, waiting with a shotgun at ready? If so, then he was in for a hellish surprise.
Richard turned the knob. It moved freely. No hindering obstructions. What if opening the door triggered a booby trap of some sort? A bomb?
That smell . . . more concentrated now. It was an unlikely combination, reminiscent of new car interior and petrol, and its source was here.
As was another, intermingled with the first, but instantly familiar to him.
Blood.
Panic flared in his chest. He fought it down. Made himself go slow. Made himself listen. He should be able to hear the breathing, the very heartbeat of anyone in the room beyond.
Nothing. That damned music interfered, masked it all.
Sweat coated him, the slick discomfort of his own fear. If it was only his safety at risk he'd already be inside, but what if the threat was also to Stephanie?
He had to look in, to take that chance with her life.
He slowly pushed the door open, tensed and ready to spring, to fight, ready for anything except the sight greeting him.
They lay in bed together, Stephanie and her twin daughters, fully clothed, yet apparently asleep.
Too still, much too still for that, his mind whispered.
For it was the cold sleep of death holding them, and its freezing grasp closed hard upon his heart, holding him as surely as if he'd been struck dead himself. He was stunned beyond thought, beyond action; all that remained was sickening perception.
The bullet holes were unseemly neat in the smooth skin of the twins' foreheads, at least on the entry side. He didn't need to see the exits to know of the hideous damage there.
Their throats had also been cut. Blood was everywhere. It matted their fair hair, soaked the pillows, and dripped down onto the floor where it puddled on the hardwood. The slaughterhouse stink of it filled the room.
Stephanie's eyes were open and stared at him dully. She had two bullet wounds, one in her stomach, the other squarely over her heart. They weren't enough for her killer; he'd taken care to cut her throat, too.
Then her face blurred as tears filled Richard's vision. A keening cry escaped him, echoing through the emptiness of the house, and Willie's words mocked him from the sound system.
I'll get over you by clinging to the healing hands of time.
He tried to step toward them, hand out as though to offer help, to give comfort, an automatic gesture and quite useless.
He tried to step toward them, but his legs gave way, dumping him in an unceremonious heap on the floor. He couldn't move, couldn't see for the tears. A great sob racked his body, unstoppable.
No time. No time for this!
He fought the tidal rush of anguish and rage, raising up, trying to make his limbs work. He could have lain there forever weeping, but that smell of new plastic and petrol, now redolent of death, pierced his grief like a dagger, and he suddenly understood the true danger all around him.
It was Semtex. Plastic explosive.
No time to look for the bomb. It could detonate any second. They'd been watching for him, waiting for him to find the bodies—
He had to run.
Terror overthrew the grief for a few precious seconds. Just long enough for him to gather himself to crash through the shuttered window. But a stray thought stopped him.
Michael. Where's Michael?
His body was not with theirs.
If there was any chance of the boy being alive, Richard would not leave no matter what the risk. He stared wildly about, then staggered to the closet, the bath.
Empty. Only blood. Blood everywhere.
At vampire speed Richard shot from the room, tore through the house. First Michael's room. Then the rest. He ripped open doors, threw over beds, calling the boy's name in a strangled voice he did not recognize.
Nothing. Not one sign of the child. Richard ran through the rest of the house in a frenzy of fear and doubt.
He tried the kitchen, searching all the cupboards, the pantry. Nothing.
Only the coat closet in the hall remained. He rushed toward it.
The front door was still open. Beyond lay the safety of night, of clear space to run.
Closet. A fleeting look. Empty. Whether that was good or bad . . .
Door.
He made it as far as the threshold.
The universe exploded into flames and dropped away from him. Some terrible force seized his whole body, lifting him effortlessly. The noise was too great to hear, only feel as it pulsed through him like a vast train. He was flying, limbs fluttering, helpless as a rag doll. He tumbled end over end before slamming into the packed earth.
The impact struck the breath from him. He was dimly aware of things hurtling past, like bullets but larger. Great chunks of the house flew around him. He cowered, hands on his head. Futile shields.
Run!
But he couldn't coordinate enough for that.
Nor was he fast enough.
The whole front wall, somehow holding together in spite of the destruction, bellied outward. He had an awful vision of red flames licking through the expanding cracks between the huge logs, and then they were falling onto him, and they were all on fire.