Black shadows spilled from Fisher’s fingers. Smoke roiled up the table legs and swept across the tabletop like morning mist rolling across a field. It swallowed our food, the wicker basket, everything. With a crash, the table flipped, toppling to the floor, and then Fisher was on his feet, lifting me out of my chair, lifting me from the ground… crossing the tent. My back slammed up against something solid and hard—a bookcase?—but it wasn’t the shock of the pain that ripped the air from my lungs. It was Fisher’s mouth. His lips crashed down onto mine. For a brief moment, I didn’t react. I’d
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EXCUSE ME?
