Ignited Read online

  “Arnold, it’s fine,” Ruth started. He whipped around to look at her, mouth agape, and she knew she’d made a mistake.

  Did she backtrack, say she didn’t mean it? How could she do that to June, who for so many years was the only person who had been kind? The last time they’d seen each other, June had told Ruth that they would go to the soda fountain and get dessert. Ruth still wanted to go.

  She hesitated, trying to find the right words to say, but her mouth was empty.

  Arnold gave her a stern look. Scolding. It reminded Ruth of her father.

  “Remember, Ruth, this isn’t your friend anymore. She’s been taken over by a demon. Her soul is lost.” He kept his voice low and urgent, staring at her imploringly.

  You really believe that, she thought. You really do.

  It was a shock to her system. She felt frozen in place, barely able to breathe. Her mind was racing, a thousand thoughts per moment—she had known Arnold her whole life. How could he really think that about June, about her …?

  June’s anger had melted away, replaced with a look of absolute hurt. Her mouth fell open in surprise, and when her eyes darted to Ruth’s, there was pain there.

  “Ruthie, you can’t possibly—”

  “Of course she can. She’s not some demon-loving sinner, like some people in this—”

  The words burst out of Ruth before she could stop them. “That’s enough, Arnold!”

  The three of them went quiet, and the conversations around them hushed, as well.

  “What did you just say to me?” Arnold hissed. He grabbed Ruth by the wrist, not hard, but with enough force to pull her away. Ruth felt herself get hotter and hotter, and she ripped her arm away, taking deep breaths as she did. Her heart rate slowed, her blood cooled.

  All around them, eyes were still on her.

  “We’re not here to start any trouble,” she reminded him, trying to sound gentle instead of panicked. “We’re here to help.”

  “And to get people on our side.”

  She swallowed the fear rising up her throat. “Yes, but if we start to scare people, no one is going to listen to us. They’ll be too upset. We’re here to do good, right? So let’s do some good, set an example.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know ….”

  “Please, Arnold?”

  She watched the indecision roll around on his face, and then, eventually, he nodded. Relief swept through Ruth. She touched his hand, ever so gently. “Thank you,” she breathed out. She risked a glance at June, trying to apologize using nothing but her eyes. June seemed to understand, nodding slightly. As Arnold took Ruth’s arm again and began to ascend the steps, June reached out and brushed her arm.

  Ruth got the message: I understand. I’m still here.

  The guilt made Ruth feel like she was walking through water, every step a challenge. Arnold seemed to have forgiven her previous transgression, chatting jovially as they walked into the main room. There were tables pushed up against all the walls, cardboard boxes littering them and the floor. Canned goods and clothes were thrown about the room. In one corner, a tall man spoke out to a large group.

  “All right, everyone,” he said to those gathered around him. “The rejuvenation project is going to begin at the fountain. We’re going to clean up the debris, plant some new flowers, reseed the grass, fix the holes in the ground. Does everyone know which group they’re in?”

  There were nods from everyone.

  “Sounds great. Let’s go!”

  The men pushed past the pair of them, heading back down the hallway that would lead them to the front stoop. Ruth turned to watch them go, and saw June entering just as they were leaving. One man—it looked like Bo Erikson, the man she’d seen hanging around her father’s church lately—knocked his shoulder into June. She hit the wall with a thud.

  She didn’t even look shocked, just jutted out her chin and kept walking as if they had never touched her at all.

  “Come on, Ruth,” Arnold said, tugging her forward.

  They walked to the nearest table, where a few ladies were sitting around with clipboards. Ruth only vaguely recognized them—she was pretty sure they worked at the local doctor’s office. Briar Steele hovered over their shoulders.

  Arnold looked stiff and uncomfortable as he approached them. He turned his nose up so he could looked down on them as he spoke. “Excuse me.” He sounded more imperious than Ruth ever heard. She felt herself blushing as people turned their way. She felt so hot. “We’re representatives from the Lamb of God church, and we’re here to—”

  Briar popped up, stepping in front of the lady behind the table. “Don’t worry about this, Aunt Patrice. I know exactly where these two need to go.”

  The woman, Patrice, raised a brow, but she nodded. “If you’re sure, Briar.” She motioned the three of them away. “Take them where they’re needed and then head back here, all right? You’re supposed to stick around the checkin table.”

  Briar rolled her eyes, but she nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to the pair of them. “Come on, Ruth, and—”

  “Arnold,” he supplied.

  “Arthur. I’ll show you two what to do.”

  Briar led Ruth and Arnold to the far end of the room, and then stopped abruptly. She whirled around to look at them.

  “Archie,” she said, staring straight at Arnold. “I think you’ll probably be most useful outside, with the other men. They’re doing some work around the statue and—”

  “I am not going to work on that idol,” Arnold spat. He took a step closer to Ruth and threw his sweaty arm around her shoulder. It was more contact than they’d ever really had before. Ruth wanted to move away from him, but she was afraid he would only try harder to keep her in place if she did. “I want to stay here, with Ruth.”

  “Well, unfortunately, this is not all about you or what you want.” Briar held his gaze, not at all intimidated. Her direct stare made him shift on his feet and glance away. “Look, we didn’t get a lot of male volunteers, and this is for the town. If you don’t want to work on the fountain or the statue, you’re more than welcome to help out with the landscaping. We had some materials donated by the Sokolovs—”

  Arnold blanched. “The Soviets? What kind of fundraiser are you running, anyway?”

  “The kind that helps people of this town and doesn’t discriminate about who is offering that help.” Briar’s voice was brutally reasonable. “You can help with re-paving some of the road that was torn up, if that makes you feel better. We need that from you. And we need Ruth down here. Okay?”

  Although he looked skeptical, Arnold nodded slowly. “All right. Fine.” He turned to Ruth and grabbed her shoulders. He stared straight into her eyes. She hoped he couldn’t read anything in them. “Will you be okay here by yourself? Do you think your dad will mind?”

  She knew the right answer, but she shook her head no anyway. “There are a lot of people here. I’m sure he wouldn’t care.”

  He nodded and then took a step back. He kept his gaze on her as he walked out of the room.

  As soon as he disappeared, Briar snorted. “Thank goodness. Why on earth did you bring him?”

  “Did you just …?” Ruth gaped at Briar.

  Briar had tricked Arnold into going away—and for what reason? She felt trapped, suddenly. She hadn’t wanted to spend the evening with Arnold, not really, but he was familiar and normal and expected. Now she was surrounded by people who were spending their time trying to fix a mess caused by people like her—and how was she supposed to keep a straight face while volunteering here? What if she talked to someone she shouldn’t, or what if she ….

  Why was it so hot in here?

  Ruth could feel her blood running in her veins, could feel her face heating up. Her chest tightened until it was difficult to breathe. She reached up and pressed her hand to her face, gasping, and tried to push her hair back behind her ears.

  The strand sizzled and came away in her hand.

  For a brief moment, Ruth didn
’t understand. The confusion acted like a cold cloth and dampened the fire in her bones. How could she have done this to her own hair?

  It hit her all at once. At one end, the hair was burned. Singed.

  Ruth’s head snapped up and her heart sank. Briar was gaping at her.

  “Come on,” Briar hissed, reaching out to grab Ruth’s sleeve and drag her out of the room. She led Ruth down a series of twisting corridors, never hesitating to glance behind them. Their footsteps echoed against the stone of the empty hallways.

  Briar stopped abruptly in front of one of the doors, turning the handle. She breathed a sigh of relief when it swung open and then pulled Ruth inside behind her. When she hit the light switch, Ruth could see child-like recreations of Jesus, the twelve disciples, and Bible verses written out in uneven script.

  Why had Briar brought her to the Sunday school room?

  “Patrice makes me volunteer here twice a month. It’s a good excuse to roam the building when I’m supposed to be polishing pews,” Briar said, dropping her grip on Ruth’s cardigan. She walked to a chest in the corner and fell to her knees, pawing through it.

  “What are you doing?” Ruth whispered urgently.

  “Craft supplies used to be right—a ha!”

  When she looked back at Ruth, she was brandishing a pair of scissors.

  Ruth took a step away. “What are those for?”

  “You singed off too much hair for you to hide until it grows out again. You’re better off if we even everything up, make it one length. I know these,” she snapped the scissors open and closed, “aren’t ideal, but it’ll hide everything until you can go home and neaten yourself up.”

  At the word “singed,” Ruth’s breath caught. Briar had seen everything, Briar knew—

  What if she told?

  Ruth reached up to touch her hair before remembering that was how she’d gotten into this mess in the first place. She put her hand back at her side and chewed her lip, thinking.

  “I don’t know what you think you saw—”

  “Ruth.” Briar got to her feet and walked forward, calm and measured. When she was close enough, she caught Ruth’s eyes and held them. She didn’t look disgusted or angry. She looked … sympathetic. “I already know the truth.”

  Her father had never taught her that just anyone could have compassion. He’d always insisted that only the faithful had it—and when he said “faithful,” he meant his followers. But it clearly wasn’t true because here was Briar Steele, helping her in a crisis.

  What did it mean that he was so wrong?

  “I saw what happened, and I’m just—I’m trying to help.” She held out the scissors, the bright red handle garish against her pale skin. “You can do it yourself, if you want, though it’ll be neater if I help.”

  “I need to see it. My hair, I mean. The damage I did,” Ruth stuttered.

  Briar nodded toward the hallway. “The restroom’s next door. We can cut your hair in there and wash it down the drain. No one who didn’t notice you when you got here will ever know.”

  Arnold would definitely notice. As Ruth followed Briar out into the hallway and into the bathroom next door, she thought of his reaction. He would tell her father—not that the man wouldn’t see the evidence of any haircut for himself. But he’d see the cut as an act of rebellion, and it would be years before Ruth was allowed out again, and—

  —and she wanted to go out again. She wanted to see June without the guilt, and to attend fundraisers without worrying about Arnold’s behavior, and she wanted all of it and to feel at peace with God, as well.

  Was it even possible? Her powers were proof that it wasn’t ….

  Weren’t they?

  Ruth caught her reflection in the mirror. A large hank of her hair was missing just below her shoulder, right at the front of her head. It was obvious and ugly, since the rest of her hair fell to her waist. The ends were burned black and felt crumbly when she touched them. There was no hiding it. It was too short to pull back, too close to the front to blend in behind her ear.

  Briar was right. It would be better just to trim it in total, even things out, and make up an excuse.

  Briar was still holding the scissors in her hands, watching Ruth carefully. Ruth studied the girl’s reflection in the mirror. Her father had been wrong about her. She was kind. Maybe not truthful all the time, but who was?

  Mistaking her silence for hesitance, Briar insisted, “It’ll still be plenty long. It’ll go to your shoulders.”

  Ruth nodded. “Okay.”

  She rolled back her shoulders, standing as tall as she could. She was still inches shorter than Briar, who leaned forward and made the first snip. A lock of hair fluttered downward into the sink, standing out dark against the porcelain.

  Ruth felt a spasm of guilt, but it passed quickly.

  The scissors closed again and again around Ruth’s head, and she closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch the damage happen. It was silly, maybe, but she’d always been taught there was godliness in having long hair. It hurt to let that part of herself go.

  She needed to distract herself.

  “Briar,” she said, interrupting the silence. “I wanted to thank you for the fabric you gave me. I appreciate it, I really do, but I just can’t keep it. It wouldn’t be right.”

  There was a snort behind her. “I didn’t buy that for you.”

  “What?” Ruth opened her eyes, tried to turn, but Briar frowned and put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her still. A glimpse showed her hair was two different lengths, the shorter half with jagged edges, and she shuttered her eyes again, unable to take it. “You had to have done it. There was no one else—”

  “I really didn’t. Dr. Porter did.”

  Ruth froze. That couldn’t possibly be true.

  All of a sudden, her fantasy came flooding back to her. The strong arms around her as she washed the dishes, his voice deep in her ear, the feel of him pressed close to her, all of his front to all of her back.

  She shuddered, pulled herself out of the daydream. She couldn’t think about that, not now.

  Despite the fact that she hadn’t said anything, Briar seemed to sense her disbelief. “No, really. He did. I helped him pick out the colors, but that’s about it. He felt responsible, since your father reacted the way he did after he saw the two of you talking.”

  “But …,” Ruth’s voice trailed off. She thought of the bruise on her arm, that had only completely faded the day before. Hadn’t that been because she asked for new fabric?

  Had it been because of Dr. Porter? Had her father seen something …?

  Before she could process it any more, Briar said, “Hold still, I’m nearly finished.”

  The scissors snipped furiously in Ruth’s ear and then abruptly stopped.

  “There.”

  Ruth opened her eyes, blinking.

  Her hair was curlier, now that the length was no longer weighing it down. It framed her face, rather than hiding it. She looked mature, more like a woman than a girl. The ends needed to be evened up a bit—they’d been shorn off using craft scissors, after all—but the curl hid most of the unevenness.

  Briar grinned at Ruth. “Well?”

  Ruth looked up at Briar. Even though she suspected she already knew the answer, she felt compelled to ask. “You’re not going to tell, are you?”

  “Even if I did,” Briar said, a faintly bitter smile twisting the corner of her mouth. “Who would believe me?”

  The words were not comforting, and that must have shown on Ruth’s face, because Briar continued, “I wouldn’t do that to you, Ruth. You have just as much a right to privacy as anyone else. Now,” she motioned toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

  The girl in the reflection barely resembled Ruth at all. It was hard to remember why that was a bad thing.

  “It looks wonderful,” she said, smiling at Briar. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Henry

  Henry walked toward the large church in
the center of town, hands shoved in his pockets. During his lunch break earlier in the day, Patrice had cornered him and refused to let him leave the kitchen until she’d extracted a promise that he would volunteer at that evening’s fundraiser. “You ought to spend some time out of that clinic with someone other than your mother or grandfather,” she’d told him, laying the guilt on thick.

  It wasn’t that he minded volunteering—Henry liked helping people, or he wouldn’t have become a doctor. But it had already been a long week, and the weekend was still a day away. He felt liable to drop at any time. Since Monday, he’d spent every spare moment—including some not spare ones, which had cost him a lot of sleep—pouring over the medical files for every person on record in the filing cabinet. So far, the only thing he was certain of was that this BBC thing was definitely only affecting those who had fallen the most ill after the fog.

  Nothing made sense. If his grandfather had discovered this abnormality in the blood, if he was testing for it—then it had to mean something. It was likely linked to the powers. Even if Henry had not been allowed to do any of the follow-ups, he had been there to help treat patients, all those weeks ago. He could help do something, at least!

  Why was he being kept outside of this?

  His head was so cluttered with thoughts that he barely heard the shouts and jeers behind him.

  He turned to see Lucy Roberts stalking down the road, going the opposite direction. Her powers had only just revealed themselves the other day, or so he’d heard Patrice and Mrs. McClure gossiping. He couldn’t remember what they were supposed to be.

  Lucy’s arms tucked tightly around herself, her head down. She had always seemed like a nice girl. Henry didn’t know her well, but the few times they had spoken, she’d been polite and sweet. She was girly, forever devoted to her saddle shoes and poodle skirts, and her hair was in a neat ponytail with a single curl. He’d heard something about her breaking off an engagement a few months earlier, which had surprised him. She had a reputation for being on the lookout for a husband. Still, she had never been anything but kind to him.