Fury's Fire by Lisa Papademetriou Page A

must have looked into his room on her way down to start the early-morning baking. A glance out the window showed only the unchanged house, which revealed no clue as to Gretchen’s safety.
    His father had taken Carl to the hospital to get stitched up. Mr. Archer had come home after two hours, looking grim. “Your uncle’s going to be all right,” he’d said, but Will had to wonder.
What made him take a drink in the first place?
    The adventure had left Will feeling tired and confused. He’d gone back upstairs to watch Gretchen’s house. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, but he’d planned to be there all night.
    He tossed away the covers, and the flute tumbled out of them. Will’s heart sank.
What if Gretchen went sleepwalking again? What if I fell asleep and missed it? What if something …
    Cursing himself, he flung himself out of bed and across the room. He dashed down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Gretchen was sitting at the table, drinking from a chipped white mug.
    She cocked her head in calm confusion. “Pulling an all-nighter?” she asked, nodding in the direction of Will’s rumpled clothes.
    He stopped short and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he sagged, leaning against the counter-top. “I just—thought I was late.”
    “You are late.” She smiled and walked over to him. “But not hideously. I was a little early, so I decided to come in and help myself.” She tilted her face to him, and he leaned down, tasting the coffee sweetness on her lips.
    The back door flew open, and Will looked up into his uncle’s startled face. Gretchen moved away and took a sip of her coffee as Will scratched at his arm and said, “Hey, Uncle Carl.”
    “Hey. Is your dad around?” Carl nodded at Gretchen but skipped his usual cheerful, blustery greeting.
    “He’s at the farm stand,” Gretchen said.
    Carl nodded again.
    “What happened to your hand?” Gretchen asked, indicating the white gauze that rested between his palm and the door.
    “Cut it,” Carl said sharply. His chin trembled, as if he wanted to add something, but he just flashed Will an unreadable look and headed out the back door.
    “Pretty subdued,” Gretchen said.
    “Yeah.” Will could think of a few reasons for that, given his drunken ramblings the night before. But what popped into his mind was Carl saying that he was “just checking.” Checking on what? Will looked up and realized that she was watching him. “I’d better change my shirt.”
    “And put on some shoes,” Gretchen agreed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
    “Do you—do you want to come with me?” Will blushed as he asked.
    “Up to your room?” Gretchen sounded wryly surprised. “Then we’ll never get out of here.”
    “I didn’t mean—” Will shook his head. All he’d meant was that he didn’t want to let Gretchen out of his sight. But it did sound suggestive … not that he was opposed to that idea, either. “Okay.” He grinned sheepishly and headed up to his room, alone.
    Gretchen is fine
, he told himself.
She’s fine
.
    But when he opened the door to his room, the flute was still on his bed.

Chapter Nine

    Circe Invidiosa
John William Waterhouse, 1849–1917
    Here, Waterhouse achieves brilliant narrative effect with a few telling details.
Circe Invidiosa
means “envious Circe,” and in this image we see the famous sea witch dripping green poison into the water where the beautiful sea nymph, Scylla, bathes. When sea deity Glaucus confessed his love for Scylla, Circe became filled with jealousy. Her poison turned Scylla into a hideous sea monster, seen here—at the moment of change—below Circe’s feet.
    Mafer had asked Gretchen if they could meet at her family’s apartment, which was down the street from the library in Waterbreak. Waterbreak was actually smaller than Walfang but had a tiny movie theater, a few shops, a decent Italian restaurant and an excellent Polish one, and a library.
    Mafer lived in a complex of