Monday Mourning

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"Then she pounced and rolled me so my face mashed the carpet.

I felt breath on my neck, weight on my back.

My God, she’s going to stab me. “Q” still controls her.

I waited for the blade.

Instead I felt pressure at my wrists. Sawing.

Tawny was cutting my bindings!

Wrenching my head sideways, I gulped for air.

“Faster, Tawny. Hurry!”

I strained the ropes outward as Tawny slashed back and forth across them. Though my arms were numb, I sensed a loosening as fiber after fiber yielded.

An eon later my hands flew apart.

Driving my feet downward, I rolled to my back.

Pain roared up my spine and across my shoulders and hips. My vision blurred.

“The knife,” I gasped.

Two Tawnys reached out, then fell back coughing. I grabbed the knife, dropped it.

I clapped my hands, shook them, banged them on the floor. When I tried again I had enough feeling to grasp the handle.

Within seconds I’d freed my ankles.

I tried to rise, toppled. Beside me, Tawny hacked and gagged.

Groping with one hand, I found a cushion.

In two thrusts, I hacked off and bisected the outer covering, placed one half over Tawny’s nose and mouth, and pressed her palm to it. The other half I slapped to my face.

An icy tingle was moving from my toes to my feet. I pushed up, slid one knee forward. Moved a hand. Advanced another knee. My limbs were working.

Hooking Tawny’s arm, I tugged her to all fours. Together we crawled three-legged from the parlor toward the front of the house where there was less flame.

Six feet up the hall a tendril of night air tantalized my nostrils.

Rising to a low crouch, I made a mad scramble to the foyer, threw open the door, stumbled over my parka, kicked it aside, shot outside, and flew down the walk, Tawny in tow.

The night smelled frosty and horsey and sweetly alive. Wind cooled my sweat-slicked face. Pellets of ice stung my cheeks, and ricocheted off my shoulders and head.

I wiped tears from my eyes and looked down at Tawny. She sat cross-legged on the ice, naked, weeping and rocking like a frightened child.

I gazed back at the house.

Smoke seeped from some windows, and billowed in a column from the newly opened front door. Fueled by the influx of air, flames were rising rapidly. Otherwise, not a hint of the nightmare inside.

My chest froze in midheave.

I listened.

No sirens.

No one was coming! Anne hadn’t phoned! No one had!

A hand flew to my mouth.

Anne. Could she be alive? “Q” had talked of three bodies in the ashes.