With hands out in a submissive manner, Wyatt steps back. "I don't want to hurt you, Newman."

I take a step forward, not sure if I should be worried or not. "Grandpa?"

He waves me back. "I'm fine. That was pure luck on his part."

Wyatt points a finger in Grandpa's face. "It's called a double-leg takedown. Very effective on those who are too stubborn to know better than to pick a fight with me."

Grandpa rolls to his feet and wipes the sweat from his eyes. "I'm giving you one more chance. Keep your mouth shut."

"It's not going to happen. Besides, people are going to notice when he suddenly lights up, or burns down the forest because he gets all p.i.s.sy. I'm sworn to protect, just like you. Your grandson is a threat to the well-being of everyone around here. This isn't about a kid with a hair-trigger temper. This is about a kid who's a walking weapon, so back down, old man."

"We came to you for help. It's a sad day when neighbors stop giving a d.a.m.n."

Grandpa throws a double jab. Wyatt fakes to the right, rotates to the left, and Grandpa shoots in. He grabs Wyatt's hand and kinks it into an abnormal position, dropping Wyatt to his knees. A wince covers his face and a curse flies from his lips.

Bending close, Grandpa growls, "This is what we old guys call a twist-his-arm-until-he-does-exactly-what-I-tell-him-to-do." He swivels around and braces Wyatt's arm in a hold that looks cry-worthy painful. "If you don't back off, I'll break it."

I can hear Wyatt sucking in air, fighting the pain the wrestling hold is creating. "You're a cop."

"I'm off duty. Trust me. It's the spirit of the law that applies here. You're threatening the well-being of my grandson, and I have the right to defend him."

Wyatt struggles, but in the end, Grandpa has him good and caught. "Okay, okay. I won't talk. Like you said, who would believe me? What he can do isn't logical. h.e.l.l, it's impossible."

"Swear it."

"I swear to G.o.d I won't say a word. I won't have to. He'll draw attention to himself. I hope you know what you're doing, old man."

Grandpa lets go, and Wyatt hisses his relief as he cradles his arm to his chest and tests its motion.

Their encounter has my blood sweeping through my veins like an Indy race car on its last lap. "So now what?"

"We go home," Grandpa says, clenching and unclenching his left hand. I think he's hurt it, but knowing him, he won't admit it.

Although the clasp is melted, I can still slip the belts free, and I let the weight vest drop to the floor, along with the ankle weights. I swipe up my T-shirt from where I tossed it and shrug it on. "Why did we come here? All we did was create more problems."

By the end of the day, all our neighbors will know who and what I am. Kera and I will have to leave.

Wyatt hops to his feet and follows Grandpa like a pit bull after its favorite doggie toy. "I told you I wouldn't talk, but you've got to think this through, Newman. Your boy here gets mad, he lights up. It's impossible!"

"So you keep telling us," I sneer.

He ignores me and harps after Grandpa. "Do you know how long he can light up without burning up? Everything is exhaustible. That fact should apply even to him. We're all created with limits, right?"

I can see Grandpa weighing the odds of leaving versus listening. I don't like it. I start toward the door. "Let's go, Grandpa. We don't need him anymore. I can deal with this on my own." And I can. All I need to do is exhaust myself to the point where I don't want to think, let alone catch fire.

"Boy," Grandpa shouts, stopping me in my tracks, "what did I tell you about letting your crow get bigger than your c.o.c.ks...o...b.."

I'm not sure what he's talking about, and I'm scared to ask.

"You've got more to learn than you think," he adds, then turns to Wyatt. "What are you suggesting?"

"Wait here." He scrounges in the storeroom and pops out holding a firefighter's suit. "I've got the protective gear. We should test him out. Find that edge, that place where he breaks."

This guy was all for turning me over to the pitchfork-wielding townspeople a la Frankenstein, and now he wants to help the monster? I take a protective step back. "I'm not sure..."

Grandpa's suddenly bobbing his head in agreement. "You may have a point."

Deep in my bones, I know it's a bad idea. From the moment Kera opened my eyes to what I really am, to the melting of the metal clasp, I know my limits are far and beyond what they should be. If Faldon's right, every time I was forced to kill someone, I inherited new powers. I may have limits, but they're so far out there, testing them may very well get someone else killed.

I try again. "Kera says I should only use magic when absolutely necessary." I remember the first time I'd used it and the sick feeling that rushed over me, how I couldn't even walk, and the mess I'd left behind. Grandpa means well, but neither of them have any idea what they're in for. "Pushing myself can upset the balance of nature. What you're suggesting is dangerous."

"Don't fool yourself, kid," Wyatt says as he stuffs one leg into the fireproof suit. "You walking around is dangerous." The suit slides up Wyatt's other leg. "How many people know about you, bonfire boy?"

"Not many." Grandpa hands Wyatt a pair of fireman boots. "People would think we're running on half a tank if I said anything. If you hadn't seen it for yourself, you wouldn't have believed us."

A sharp, short laugh erupts from Wyatt as he jerks on a boot. "No doubt."

How'd they go from beating each other up to buddies in less than a minute? Watching Grandpa help Wyatt suit up is surreal. "This is crazy. I know what I'm capable of doing and it's not something you want to see."

Grandpa snorts. "Already seen it, remember?"

Wyatt looks from me to Grandpa, his face reflecting his intense interest. "Umm, yeah, I'm pretty sure I want to see it again."

I can feel the anger grow in my belly. To Grandpa, I'm someone who needs discipline. To Wyatt I'm a weird phenomenon he can't wait to experiment on.

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Calm yourself," Grandpa says. "We need to see if we can control what sets you off, or at least regulate the reaction. Then you're safer. We're all safer. That's what we came here to do in the first place, right? Make you safer. That reminds me. I should get the hose."

"What? We're doing it here? In the barn? It's made out of wood. Does that not ring any alarms?"

"We can't do it outside where everyone can see," Wyatt says as if I'm the dumbest person alive.

"Don't worry, son." Grandpa slaps me on the back. "I've got you covered." And off he trots to get the hose.

"Seriously, kid. Show a little trust," Wyatt adds.

Wow, this guy's been hit in the head one too many times if he thinks I'm going to trust him. "Aren't you the one who wanted to rat me out five seconds ago?"

"Yeah, well," he shrugs. "Now I don't."

My instincts scream at me to run. I don't, and I'm not sure why. I voice my objections one last time. "I'm gonna go down as saying this is a really bad idea."

Grandpa turns to Wyatt. "I say we use the industrial hose your daddy has at the shop."

Wyatt throws him a thumbs-up and lumbers off. I clasp my head between my hands and spin away. My nerves crackle under the surface of my skin. "Grandma is going to kill us."

"Stop digging in that well. It's deep enough. What she doesn't know won't hurt her." He grabs my arm and hauls me to the center of the barn and scuffs a black X on the floor with his boot heel. "Stand right there. Now, when I say so, go ahead and light up. Don't push yourself too much. We want to see how hot you burn normally."

This is a disaster, one I can't step away from even if I want to...which I do, but I'm good and stuck. What's that old saying? If you can't beat 'em, join 'em? I might as well jump into the mudhole they're making and wallow around with them.

Resigned to my fate, I step onto the X.

Wyatt jogs back in with a coiled water hose hanging heavily in his arms. The boom when he drops it shakes the floor. They hook it up to a specialized spout, and then Grandpa, his feet planted wide, the hose tucked under his right armpit, shoots a stream hard enough to peel paint along the ground.

"Don't want the floor to catch fire." He cranks the water off and motions Wyatt forward.

Wyatt shoves on his masked helmet, and immediately goes into Darth Vader mode. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Why do I feel like I'm in a Jacka.s.s movie waiting for the stupid to drop?

"Okay, son." Grandpa grips the hose tight. "Light up."

When I'm not on an emotional joyride, calling forth the flames takes a bit more concentration. I hold out my hand and visualize the fire crawling through me and to my palm. A few seconds later, the fireball pops to life, flickering against my skin, tickling me where it would burn someone else.

"Cute," Wyatt's m.u.f.fled voice says from behind the fireman's mask. "Can you manage something a little more threatening?"

When the fire is alive, it does something to me. It heats up my blood, like I've just won a fistfight and I need to cool down. I want to let all the heat out as fast as possible. I need to let it out.

The flickering orb grows until it's nearly the size of a basketball. I take aim and pitch it toward Wyatt. It bursts against his torso, sending him flying backward. He lands b.u.t.t-first on the ground and skids until he hits the wall.

The hose drops from Grandpa's armpit as he takes a step forward. "Wyatt! You okay?"

Wyatt's helmeted head shakes as if he's rattling his brains back into working order, and a string of curses fly.

Grandpa snorts and then mutters, "He's okay."

Fifteen minutes later, we've stacked some hay bales behind Wyatt, and thoroughly wet them down. "It'll still hurt like h.e.l.l," Grandpa says to Wyatt, "but you shouldn't break anything. You good to go?"

"I'm game. Let's do this."

Adrenaline junkie. That's got to be his excuse. Who else would do something this stupid? I position myself back on the X, and when everyone is ready, I call the flame to my hand. At first it tickles, like a feather. The little ball is a friendly light, playful and easy to control.

Grandpa shifts the hose higher. "Let 'er rip, Dylan."

"This isn't a good idea," I say one last time. I don't know why I bother; he's not listening.

As if I need encouragement, Wyatt starts calling me names that would make a prison guard blush. Usually being taunted never bothered me, but since I've gotten back from Teag, it doesn't take much to stir the heat. I narrow my gaze and let the fire engulf me.

It's strange, the way it crawls up my skin like a snake curling around a branch until it's stretched along the limb waiting to strike. It flickers in front of my eyes, and everything I see is bathed in a warm glow. That glow grows until it burns against my heart.

My lashes wipe the flames away for a second and then they pop back, dancing wildly. Sharp, brutal images flash in my mind. I don't recognize them as my own. I grit my teeth. My heart pounds. Anger floods my gut and the fire brightens.

Water strikes my feet. A sharp sizzle sounds as the flames lick at the water, turning it into steam. I see Wyatt lumber forward in his suit. I can't hear what he's saying; only the seductive hiss of fire is in my ears...and it wants to be free.

Wyatt tosses one of those silver fireproof blankets over me. I flare, turning the blanket into ash. As the gray flakes spiral away, I see flames skittering overhead and Grandpa chasing them with water. No matter what he does, the fire crawls along the ground and ripples up the walls. The hay bales behind Wyatt smoke. Soon flames finger their way through the feed.

A hacking cough erupts from Grandpa as the thick, dark smoke builds, curling upward as it presses down. Wyatt pushes him toward the door and takes up the hose. He blasts me with water, thinking he can put out the flames. At first it seems to work. The flames recede. Steam rushes into the air, building a wall around me. For a second I remember who I am, but the fire is insistent and flashes along my skin again. "Get out!" I cry before it engulfs me completely.

Wyatt sprays me again. This time the fire refuses to die. All around us the building has become a living beast of flame. He tosses the hose down and runs for the door. I can feel the power rushing into my body, the fire curling back on itself like a lung filling with air. There's no way I can stop it. Suddenly, my body arches. Fire bursts from me, rocking the building, tearing it from its foundation and blasting the structure into the air. The power of the explosion rockets the debris high into the sky before it whizzes to the ground like fiery missiles.

When the smoke clears, I'm no longer burning. I'm standing on a ragged piece of charred wood, but not for long. Gravity shifts, and I fall to my knees. My head spins, and as my vision tunnels, I see Grandpa and Wyatt rush toward me.

"You're okay," I manage to say, and then I tip forward as the world goes black.

Trust Is a Fragile Thing.

The haze sucks me into a dream, something I've tried to avoid since the disturbing ones I had before I was released from the hospital. I'm standing in a darkly lit room. The faint shadow of a low bed stretches out near one wall. Closer to me is a small rickety table with basin and pitcher. The stone walls are slick. Water drips. The colors, all grays and browns and blacks, blink dully in the dim light. I hear the flutter of wings, and I whip around. "Who's there?"

Nothing comes forward. My dreams always carry a sliver of fuzzy truth, and I struggle to find what's real and what isn't. The room shudders, as if the walls are taking a deep breath.

It's odd for me to be alone in a dream. I take a step forward, and immediately get jerked to a stop. Chains fold over my chest, drag to the floor, wrap around my ankles, and slither off into the darkened corners. I shrug, feeling their weight pressing down on me.

I don't know what they're made of. Not iron. Whatever it is, the metal has its own power. Keeping me still. Weighing me down. Depressing me in a way that makes me want to curl up and never move again.

I fight the feeling and struggle to be free. The chains cut into my skin.

"The more you fight, the tighter they become," sounds a deep voice.

I twirl around, and from out of the darkness emerges the man who haunted my dreams when I was in the hospital. Like before, his clothes are tattered, his hair s.h.a.ggy. Inky crescents mar the skin beneath his eyes. The starved line to his jaw makes hunger gnaw at my own belly.

"Dylan. Do you know who I am?"

Only because Kera told me. "The Lost King."

Baun. My father. Though I don't feel any familial warmth toward him.

"Very good." His lips tilt into a half smile, though his eyes remain dull. "I know all about you."

Something isn't right. My skin itches and my head feels soft. I have to concentrate in order to understand everything he's saying.

His own chains clatter as he moves closer. "About now, you should be feeling the strain of your added powers."

His face swims in front of mine, distorted like the image in a funhouse mirror. My stomach clenches, and I force myself not to bend over in pain. "What's wrong with me? I've never felt like this before."

Every time I visited Kera in our dream world, I'd felt invincible.

Baun moves closer. I try to step back, but the chains keep me still. He stops. "When you defeated Navar, you absorbed his powers, including those he stole from me." He raises his hand, and the surge of power trying to escape my body sends me to my knees, gasping for breath. His fingers glow softly and he breathes deeply as if savoring a top-cut steak.

I groan, and he suddenly steps back. "My powers want to return to their rightful owner, but they can't."

He closes his eyes, murmurs something, and then opens his eyes. "Better?"

The strange feelings slowly dissipate. I nod.