Page 36 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

I’m here. I’ll protect her. Even from myself.

Even though I believe it, my skin prickles. I tell myself it’s just residue from all the spells. Or perhaps the concentration of beings with powers and supernatural origins collected in one place.

But it could always be one of the few dark beings who still doesn’t understand that Pine Ridge is protected by monsters who will use their strength to protect this little haven—at any cost.

I walk Andrea to her car and sigh once she’s inside. “I’ll follow you to the station,” she calls as she rolls the window down. “Then we can ride in my car back to my place. Oh, wait. Did you leave your car at the station?”

“It’s an old truck, but yes. Still. Follow me?” I bend to kiss her hand as she holds it out of the half-open window. This is terrible. I feel like I can’t stand to be away from her for a second. That I must protect her, and I can’t protect her unless I’m touching her or looking at her—and that is probably not the right sort of behavior.

“Yes, I’ll follow you,” Andrea says, her eyes dreamy when I release her hand.

Note to self. Andrea likes when I kiss her.

Which is good, because I absolutely love it.

“Hey, is that a red reflector, or some leftover red embers on the roof... Or something else?” Andrea suddenly asks, pointing and squinting at something way down at the end of the athletic complex.

“That’s the caretaker’s shed. Shoot, that’s where the extra gasoline would be for the lawnmowers. I should check, just to be extra sure,” I groan, and turn back towards the truck.

When I drive down there, my nostrils twitch.

There’s a burning smell. Not the smell of simple fireworks, but of something else. Gas. Sulfur. Charred wood. The exterior of the shed is metallic. Aluminum siding, I think.

This isn’t a normal smell.

I rush from the truck and open the door just in time to see the scorches on the floor of the shed, the smoldering black lines—and hear the whoosh-pop of the shed turning into an inferno.

At first, I think there’s one more firework that hasn’t been set off. Gordon must have found it. Thrown it free.

And then I see the ball of yellow, orange, red, and black explode in an irregular sphere into the night.

“Gordon!” I scream, and I drive like a madwoman down the field. I call 911 and don’t let them speak as I careen towards the ball of death and flames, looking for signs that Gordon hadn’t yet made it inside.

“9-1-1, what is your—”

“Fire! Huge fire at the Pine Ridge High athletic field. Caretaker’s shed. Blew up!” I scream, barely remembering to turn off my car before rushing out of it.

There’s a huge, fucking firetruck right next to me. Right here. And I don’t know how to use it. I don’t know how to use any of the equipment on it. I don’t know if I’m going to get blown up, too, if I get close, and everything inside of me is breaking, because... Gordon.

My sweet, shy, beautiful, brave Gordon is in there. He has to be, because I don’t see him anywhere else. And if he is...

I feel everything in my stomach, hot dogs, hamburgers, lemonade—all of it comes up in a sob that tears my chest apart. “No! No, fuck, no, Gordon!” I pace, helpless, over to the truck, wiping my eyes and mouth, trying to figure out if there is anything I can do.

I sent him in there. I saw the red flash. I saw it. If I hadn’t said anything, the shed would still be on fire, but Gordon wouldn’t be in it! “Oh, God, I killed him,” I whisper.

Sirens are already filling the air. The two volunteer firefighters who drove the other two trucks tonight must have still been on the road, or at least still at the station. I lost track of everyone and everything but Gordon.

The nicest, sweetest man. The man who was going to be the perfect boyfriend. Maybe The One.

If I hadn’t just sent him to die.

Maybe... There’s a miracle... I stop standing helplessly by the truck and try to go towards the blaze. What if he’s knocked unconscious, still alive? Even burned? I could rescue him. I can haul him out, I know I can. I sob again, thinking about his size, and then remembering stories of mothers lifting cars off their babies.

Out of love. Or crisis. Or both.

To my utter shock, the shed’s oily black flames are rolling off and up. The area around the shed was wet on the outside from earlier, from the pre- and post-fireworks spray down. It’s a metal shed, although I don't know if it’s wooden inside. I cover my face with my arm and try to get a look through the smoke and flames, coughing and gagging, eyes and throat already raw.

There’s a form on the ground.