Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1) by Robert III (great books for teens .txt) 📗

And then the tip of his blade pierced her skin.

Coyle jolted awake and grabbed at her chest. She rubbed her face and looked around, but he wasn’t there. Just the nightmare again.

Where was she? She sat up, caught her breath, and her head flared in pain. She rubbed her head and looked at her palm.

Blood. My blood.

She’d fallen. What had happened? She touched a thick lump behind her ear and winced as she stood on shaky legs.

Was there a fireplace nearby?

Tendrils of black smoke curled through the ceiling. She leaned against the table. The maps and Edison’s moving-picture box jolted her memory. She remembered she was looking through the rooms for evidence. That meant Poes and Vonteg were somewhere.

“Poes! Poes, what’s happened?” She stood at the doorway and listened. There was the crackling and popping of a roaring fire nearby, but she didn’t remember a fireplace. She glanced around the corner and cried out. Flames crept along the old timber ceiling and fortifications. The growing heat and smoke forced her to her knees, and she crawled to the room Poes was in. She screamed his name again, but there was no answer. She covered her head as the ceiling collapsed in a shower of flaming debris. Bits of charred papers and folders flew into the hall. Something fell from above and struck her knee. She glanced at a worn leather notebook and grabbed it. Better to take something out of this than nothing.

The metal grate dug into her bare hands and knees, but it was better than sucking in black, scorching air. She crawled away from the room and looked for the staircase, but couldn’t remember. The smoke was getting darker, thicker. Flames were growing by the moment. Her eyes stung. Her head pounded. She tore her skirt, wrapping it around her mouth and nose. The others must have escaped, but why had they left her? Was this some kind of trap? Did they leave her to die? Was Treece finished with her?

She crawled to a closed door, reaching for the doorknob. The handle was warm, but hopefully there was no fire inside. She opened it and shut the door behind her. No flames. Clean air. She coughed and wiped the sting out of her eyes. The lights began to flicker, and she was suddenly aware she may be in the dark again.

The room was spacious, with a long hallway on one side that led to more rooms. She collapsed on the plush, expensive carpets and caught her breath. Oil paintings hung in antique frames, and beautiful furniture pressed against the walls. She stood and limped down the hallway, glancing into the next room—and froze.

In the uncertain light, her eyes recognized the sight before her, though her brain begged for an alternative answer. Shelves covered the walls. On each shelf were rows of large, glass bottles filled with something horrifyingly familiar.

Run!

She didn’t need to know. She was better off without knowing.

But the detective in her had to know. Had to be sure of the evidence before her. She crept closer the shelf and turned the glass bottle. Revulsion flashed through her mind like the flickering lights above. Her hand pulled back.

Fluid strands of thin, reddish-brown hair.

The scoop and curve of a small ear.

The long, tender curve of a jawline.

Lips curled, misshapen.

A mouth hung open, frozen in a scream no one would hear.

Dull, gray, staring eyes with spots of green.

Bits of pale flesh pulled away into the broth of proteins and embalming fluid.

She turned away and screamed with her hands to her mouth. The faulty lights cast a macabre lightning storm across the shelves of decapitated heads. She turned away, crying out for Poes, but no answer came. She was alone, and there was no one to help her.

And she was going to die alone.

She shook her head at the lie she didn’t want to believe. She was dizzy, her legs weak, but her desire to live was more powerful. She was a survivor, and she would find a way.

Like I did that night.

She opened her eyes to the silent audience and bumped into something low to the ground. A table full of paperwork. Ledgers. Notebooks. Scattered papers. Pencils. She scooped them up, shoved them into a leather briefcase leaning against the wall, and pulled the strap over her head.

There was a loud crack. A quick glance at the front door told her there was no going back.

The fire had broken through.

She kept her eyes down, heart pounding in her ears, and turned the corner to a small bedroom. A rifle leaned in the corner, and she slung it over her shoulder. Her eyes searched every inch for escape. She glanced across the hall into a bathroom with a toilet and bath but nothing more. No more doors. No more windows.

She was trapped.

Hot air spread above, and fire crackled louder. She covered her mouth and nose. Time was running out. A loud pop made her peek around the corner. Fire covered one of the shelves. There was another loud crash, and she ducked behind the doorframe as flaming shards of glass sprayed the hallway.

“Oh, my God,” Coyle said in terror. Formaldehyde was flammable. And the whole room was full of it. Another crash sent flaming shards of glass everywhere, each piece alighting the floor.

She shut the bedroom door and pulled aside the drawers, the chest. Nothing. She pulled up the rug.

A trap door!

She yanked the handle. Darkness and cold, salted air slapped her face. She looked into the black pit and froze. Her skin crawled, and her stomach rolled.

Anything but this.

The walls shook, and her hands groped down, finding metal rungs. She stepped inside the blackness, sinking into the void, closing her eyes as madness greeted her. And then was she stopped. Something was caught. She pulled, but couldn’t go lower. What was happening?

The rifle lay across the opening, preventing her escape. Glass exploded, and the heat became unbearable. She fumbled with the rifle strap, trying to untangle herself.

She yelled