The Liberator

38 Fire Dancer

Around the circular room are twelve fireplaces. They are ten feet tall and ten feet wide. Inside them, humans are bound by their ankles. Flames shoot up from stacks of wood at their feet and lick their skin. The moans are louder here than almost anywhere else. Every once in a while someone lets out a scream. When that happens, the fire burns blue. It engulfs their entire body and singes their hair. The demons don’t come when they scream. The fire takes care of that.

The smell of burning flesh and smoke fills my senses, and even though I’ve smelled it a hundred times, I almost heave.

With my chin, I motion toward an empty fireplace. It burns just as bright as the others, but there aren’t any bodies in this one. “That’s where we’re going.”

“Inside there?” Aspen gasps. “With the fire?”

“We just have to walk through it,” I say, as if this is somehow better.

Aspen’s gaze turns to the burning bodies. “Can we do anything for these people?”

I shake my head. “It’s too late for them.”

She bites her lip and cringes. I wonder if it’s the sound they’re making, or the smell, or perhaps the sight of them that bothers her the most. She looks back at the empty fireplace. “Will it hurt?”

I want to tell her no. I want to protect her from all of this. But I can’t. “It will,” I answer honestly. “But only as you pass through it. Once we’re on the other side, your wounds will heal.”

She squats down, and her gloved hands touch the ground. It’s like she’s lost the will to stand. “How much farther?”

“We’re almost there.” I grip her shoulder, and she stands back up. Then she grits her teeth.

“Let’s go, then.”

We clasp hands and approach the flames. They seem to bend toward us, eager for a taste. “Ready?” I ask.

“Could I ever be ready for this? For any of this?”

I almost laugh. Almost.

“Quickly!” I order. We dart toward the hearth, and within seconds we’re engulfed. The scent of my own flesh burning fills my nose, making me gag. Aspen’s hair is on fire, flaming orange. Her mouth is open in a perfect circle of black, but no sound comes out. Pain radiates through every nerve in my body. It’s so intense, I think I’ll collapse.

I forget about Aspen. I forget about Charlie. There’s only agony, slicing open my skin and filling it with blinding heat. The skull buckle on my belt melts and drips silver onto my shoes. My right ear peels off and falls to the ashes below, a hunk of charred meat. The sizzling sound I heard before is now cut in half. My vision blurs, and I know the fire is eating my eyes, sucking them from their sockets like the pimento in a stuffed olive. The misery is too much. The fire is too greedy, too hungry. I’ve done this before, but I can’t do it again. I can’t take another single step after this one.

It’s over.

We fall to the floor on the other side of the hearth. Aspen wraps her arms around herself and rolls on her back, but our skin has already repaired itself. Even my clothing and belt buckle look untouched. That’s the beauty of hell. Your body is never destroyed. That way, the pain can always continue.

“You’re okay,” I say, brushing the ashes from her hair. It’s black again. Not red or orange or any other color that makes my stomach churn. “We’re so close.”

Aspen coughs into her open hand, but nothing comes out. Her lungs are perfect. Untouched. She slowly comes to a stand. I offer her my arm, which she refuses. A pang of guilt rushes through me, but I push it down. I can’t think about how horrible it is that she’s here now. If I do, I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else.

We’re in a room that’s a perfect square. The walls and floor are made of charcoal-gray concrete, and it doesn’t seem that threatening. There aren’t giant bears or snakes or demons or even fire. It’s just a room. But we all have our weaknesses. And this has always been the one I hate the most.

The walls start moving.

They push Aspen and me away from the edge of the room. She spins to look for the fireplace, but it’s gone.

Soon, the ceiling is moving, too, sliding down toward the floor with a rumble.

“What’s going on?” Aspen says, twirling like a ballerina to see the walls inching closer. I can tell right away this is different for her. She knows what’s happening, and her body is already writhing with terror.

“We can pass through them,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “You have to believe it, though. Just like with the Hall of Mirrors.”

Aspen’s lips curl back with panic. “I can’t do this, Dante. Make them stop.”

I know exactly what she means. There’s only one thing that makes my mind threaten to shut down, and that’s being boxed in. I take her face in my hands. “Listen to me,” I say. “This won’t hurt you.”

The walls grind closer. The ceiling is five feet above our heads. She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

“Aspen, stop it,” I say. “Look at me.”

Aspen grabs onto my wrists but doesn’t open her eyes. “I can’t do this anymore,” she mumbles. “I want to leave. I want to go home.”

I put my mouth close to her ear. “I want you to remember the time you and I were in Sahara’s room. Remember Lincoln painted his nails black and Sahara wanted to be spun in a circle? You couldn’t lift her, but I could. I can lift you now, but you have to believe I can.”

Aspen’s green eyes flash open. They swim with tears as she holds my gaze. “You said you’d never go away.”

“I never will.”

Aspen tilts her head to the side. “I don’t want to die. Not without telling him.”

Confusion crashes through me, but there isn’t time to think on it. The roof comes down and touches the top of my head. I let go of Aspen’s face and fumble for her hand. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tell myself that I am made of air. I am nothing. I am nothing, and the wall is nothing, too.

The ceiling passes over my head and shoulders. I am left untouched, sliding through the cement like a ghost. Aspen bends down, and tears slip down her cheeks. I lean down to keep hold of her hand.

“Aspen, you’re not really here,” I yell. “You are back in your room with Sahara.”

The ceiling creeps downward.

“You are at Lincoln’s house, laughing at his paranoia.”

Aspen smiles up at me, though she can probably only see my legs. The rest of my body is invisible, buried in the concrete that isn’t really there. At least not once you stop believing in it.

I think fast, my brain whirling with what to tell her.

“Aspen,” I say gently. “You are with Blue. You’re telling him how you feel, and he’s holding your hand. He’s asking you to come with him. All you have to do is stand up and pass through the ceiling. And he’ll be there.”

Aspen’s gaze moves to our connected hands. I’m losing my grip on her. She swallows and seals her eyelids tight. Then she stands up. Her body slides through the cement like a hot knife through butter.

We are both on the other side. The ceiling is gliding down our legs. I step up onto it, and Aspen does the same. Then we are being lifted up instead of pushed down.

“So,” I say, titling her chin up to look at me. “Blue, huh?”

She releases this nervous laugh and shrugs. “I almost died. Cut me some slack.”

“You thought you almost died,” I clarify. “If the ceiling had come down on you, it would have crushed you, yes. But then it would have just repeated the torture over and over. No biggie.”

Aspen manages a small smile. “What a way to spend a birthday.”

My heart skips a beat. “What did you just say?”

“It’s my birthday,” she says.

As Aspen and I are lifted higher and higher toward the next room, the soul storage room, my blood freezes in my veins. It’s Aspen’s birthday. Her birthday. Eighteen years ago, Aspen Lockhart was born.

And eighteen years ago today, so was Charlie Cooper.