What Will Burn by James Oswald (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

it, twisting away so that it grazed his shoulder. Had he been less dazed, he might have grabbed the foot in passing and sent the man tumbling. Instead, he pushed himself away, weak legs refusing to let him stand. The man was a shadow, almost invisible in the gloom, but instead of coming in for a killing blow he seemed to recede. There was a scraping noise that penetrated even the ringing in McLean’s punch-drunk ears, and then a powerful reek of paint thinners filled the air.

‘No.’ McLean pushed himself to his feet, fighting the urge to throw up, and the dizzying whirl that threatened to have him tumbling to the floor again. He could barely see anything over the spinning stars in his eyes, and the reek of white spirit only made things worse. He was still gasping for air, still not able to muster much more than a hoarse whisper.

Another noise, and with it a bright flare of light that wasn’t anything to do with the blow he’d taken to the head. McLean squinted against the glare as it illuminated the man’s face. He stood close to the pyre, almost in it, and stared up at the lolling form of the chief superintendent.

‘All the witches must burn.’ His voice wavered as the match in his fingers flickered in anticipation of greater things. McLean was already moving, the last of his strength carrying him across the hall in what he hoped was a straight line. Even though his lungs felt empty, he forced out an angry roar, reaching for the hand that held the match as he smashed into the man. But his fingers closed on empty space. The two of them fell together, rolling away from the pyre in a tangle of limbs as the room lit up bright with fire.

‘No!’ McLean lashed out with a weak fist, catching the man in the side of the head. Almost casually, his attacker swatted him away, pushing himself to his feet with an ease McLean envied. Gary Tomlinson. It had to be him. McLean was all too aware that his attacker was half his age, strong from a decade of working on building sites, stronger still from whatever mad rage was coursing through him. There was no way to win this fight fairly. Where the hell was Harrison and that back-up?

Pivoting on his elbow, McLean lashed out with a foot. His hip screamed in pain, but somehow he managed to connect with Gary’s leg as he brought it in for another heavy kick. The man fell backwards with an angry yell, but the move brought McLean’s head round to the fire that was greedily climbing up the pyre towards the chief superintendent. He heard the crackle of his own hair catching, and instinct pulled him back. He brushed away the flames with one hand as the other one found the floor, levered himself into a crouch just in time to see Gary coming for him again. He launched himself upwards with all his remaining strength, catching his attacker in the midriff. The two of them fell to the floor once more, tangled together, and McLean used his momentum to smack his forehead into Tomlinson’s face. He felt the crunch of nose breaking, and then his attacker fell still.

No time to rest, the air was choking bad, the flames leaping eagerly at the dry wood. McLean thought his ears were ringing with the blows he had taken in his brief fight, but as he focused he realised it was screaming. He scrambled to his feet, swaying from the exertion. Stumbling to the nearest window, he grabbed a long, heavy curtain and heaved. For an agonising few moments nothing happened, then the whole curtain rail pulled away from the wall and he fell backwards, momentarily smothered by the heavy velvet.

It took too long to fight his way out of the fabric’s embrace, his strength almost gone. The room was unpleasantly hot now, and somewhere over the roar of flames McLean could hear a rhythmic pulsing sound. Unimportant, he could deal with that later. He gathered up the curtain and flung it over the pyre. Flames licked at the edges, finding something new to feast upon. There was no time to spare.

Taking his life in his hands, he stepped on to the curtain, finding a balance in amongst the burning stack. The chief superintendent had fallen silent now, head bowed, hair almost all gone. Was she still alive? McLean put his arms around her and heaved. He’d expected resistance from the ropes that tied her to the bedpost, but the flames had already weakened them. She fell against him and, unbalanced, he tumbled backwards. He landed on his back, the fall and the weight of the chief superintendent both driving the air from his lungs. The back of his head clattered against tile and the flames seemed to dim around him. Elmwood’s face rested on his shoulder, her skin blackened and blistering. What a stupid way to go, burned to death in the embrace of a woman he wanted nothing to do with.

And then the weight lifted off him as someone carried the chief superintendent away. Another face loomed over his, upside down, as other figures swarmed in his peripheral vision. DS Harrison looked both worried and livid.

‘Thought you said you weren’t going in on your own, sir.’

61

Fire engines blocked the no-longer quiet street, the crews going about their skilled work as they attempted to contain the blaze. Watching from the back of an ambulance, McLean wondered whether Lord Bairnfather was adequately insured, and if the owners of the properties either side would sue.

‘Apart from the hair, I reckon you’re fine.’ The paramedic who had been checking him over stepped back and pulled off his blue plastic gloves. ‘Probably going to be coughing for a day or two, but I don’t think you got too much smoke. Might have been a better idea if you’d not gone into a burning building in the