There was no doubt, even with the trembling footage that looked like someone had taken it on their cellphone – it was Aunt Jo’s run-down Victorian home, crackling and crumbling to the ground. Even the garden ornaments in the front yard were ablaze. I could just make out one of the gnomes, standing enveloped in flames like a weird fire spirit.

The picture changed to blackened ruins, with firemen picking through them. The entire second storey of the house was gone, with only dark, skeletal fingers sticking up here and there. I stared at a smudged piece of lavender wall. My bedroom.

“...cause unknown, though local police suspect vigilantes from the Church of Angels might be behind the blaze. Early reports indicate there were no survivors. The bodies of two women have been found in the ruins, thought to be Miranda and Joanna Fields, the mother and aunt of Willow Fields...”

On the TV screen were two body bags on stretchers, being carried out from the house’s charred remains.

Chapter Two

I STARTED TO SHAKE AS the world thudded in my ears. On the screen one of the firemen slipped on the rubble; I stared wordlessly as the too-human-shaped bag shifted on the stretcher.

“Willow!” Alex was crouching in front of me, his voice almost harsh as he gripped my shoulders. “I’m sorry, but if we don’t get the hell out of here, it’ll be us next. Come on!”

Somehow I managed to nod. I couldn’t breathe; my entire body felt crushed by the weight of what I’d just seen. Mom. Mom. I got up and took the small photo of myself with the willow tree from where I’d placed it on the bedside table, shoving it numbly in my jeans pocket. It was all I had left from my old life now. Alex kept the TV on as he edged the door open, peering out. “It’s clear,” he whispered, half-turning and holding out his hand to me. “Don’t look like we’re in a hurry. But be ready to run.”

No survivors, no survivors. The words beat through my skull as we walked to the parking lot, holding hands. The only people in sight were a couple unloading their things from a car; neither of them looked at us. As we reached the motorcycle, Alex handed me the helmet and shoved the plastic bag in the storage compartment. My fingers felt thick and clumsy as I worked the helmet’s straps.