Page 1 of Whispers of Helena
Prologue
Ashes
Helena
Four YearsEarlier
I can’t breathe.
The first thing I feel is the burn—sharp, biting, relentless. My chest is tight, every breath searing my lungs. Ash stings my eyes as I open them, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. The air is thick, suffocating.
I bolt upright, gasping, my hands scrambling for something solid, only to find scorching heat.
Fire.
The crackle of burning wood roars around me, a sound so loud it drowns out reason. My mind races, frantic.
“Wake up!” I scream, my voice raw and desperate. “We need to get out!”
The body next to me doesn’t move. His face is slack, his chest still. The sight punches the air from my lungs.
“No, no, no,” I choke, shaking him with trembling hands. “Please, get up!”
Hedoesn’t stir. The force of my tears carve paths through the soot smeared across my skin.
The baby.
The thought hits me like a bolt of lightning, spurring me into action. Throwing back the covers, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. A scorching floor sends waves of pain up my legs. The heat is everywhere now, radiating from every surface. This house—our home—is turning to hell around me.
My heart slams against my ribs as I stagger toward the door, the thin fabric of my nightgown clinging to my sweat-soaked skin. I pull the hem over my mouth and nose, trying to block out the smoke, but it barely helps.
The hallway is a wall of fire. Flames lick at the edges of the doorframe, their light casting eerie shadows across the room. I can’t stop. I have to get to the nursery.
The baby is crying—high, jarring wails cutting through the chaos. I push forward, every step a battle. The floor feels like it’s collapsing beneath me, and the smoke coats my throat. I reach my shaking hands for the nursery door, but recoil from the heat radiating off the door knob. I gather my gown, using it like a glove, and grip the metal, turning it fast. Inside, the crib is a blur through the haze of smoke, but the sound of the cries guide me.
I grab the baby, holding him close. His tiny body is hot against mine, his face red and streaked with ash. His lips are blue. My stomach clenches.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please, just stay with me.”
The hallway is worse now; the fire roaring louder, hotter. I feel faint, my gait unsteady and slow. The baby’s cries have turned to quiet whimpers, and my panic rises. My chest heaves, each breath like swallowing shards of glass.
I can’t leave him.
The thought crashes into me, heavy as the heat. I’m not leaving here without him. My tears mix with sweat and ash as I turn back toward the bedroom, each step slower than the last.
The fire is everywhere now, hungry and alive, devouringeverything in its path. I stagger back to the bed, my knees weak. He’s still there, still motionless.
“Wake up!” I plead, my voice breaking. “I can’t do this without you.”
I slap his face lightly, then harder, shaking his shoulders with every ounce of strength I have left. The baby shifts in my arms, his cries barely a whimper now.
“Please,” I sob, pressing my forehead to his. “Please wake up.”
The house groans around us, a deep, mournful sound. I feel the floorboards shudder under me as a loud crack echoes from the hallway, a beam collapsing. The fire surges, blasting heat through the room like a furnace.
I know then.
We’re not getting out.
