Chapter 93

But when Michael touched him, he turned over, whimpering.

Michael hugged Hunter close to him, kissing the blistered face. “Thank God,” he whispered into Hunter’s neck, “thank God.” Sirens wailed in the distance, and Michael wished they had been here long ago, long before whatever hell Hunter had endured had come to pass. Now the fire trucks would maybe make it in time to stop the conflagration from reaching the surrounding woods or even his own cottage nearby. But there was no hope for Beaumont House. Even now he heard the roaring collapse of entire floors, ancient brick and stone crumbling to the earth. But there was hope for Hunter, he thought, looking down at his face, nearly unrecognizable beneath the drying blood, ash, and blisters. Hunter’s arm was at an odd angle, swung over his head.