Harmon lay in the snow, helpless. His body was broken and useless. The stench of gasoline on him was overpowering. Above, the moon began to cut through the night like an evil face emerging from the shadows.
His arm rose against his will. His palm cradled the matchbox, and his fingers, suddenly nimble, slid it open. He snagged a wooden match and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He tried desperately to let it drop, but the harder his mind pushed, the deeper grew his need; he would have the flame. Somewhere, buried within his terror, he wanted to burn. He needed to.
He struck the match against the box. It erupted into a bright flame before it fizzled in the wind. The Dark saw no humor in this, and Harmon’s fingers grabbed a second match. A third. A fourth. The wind was too strong.
As if directed, the creatures punished Harmon for this failure as they feasted. His screams were lost in the storm. Finally, mercifully, his fingers faltered and the matchbox slipped to the ground.
“What— … no.”
He heard her … heard her tiny voice in the wind. She stood behind him, and he craned his neck to see. “Rosa? Baby?”
Rosalee knelt beside him. Slipped her tiny hands about his fingers. “They’re so rough, Papa.”
“I … I know, baby. I know.”
Half of that beautiful face had already turned. She kissed his hand and set it down.
She picked up the matchbox.
“Rosa? … Rosa!”
She drew a match.
“Baby, no! Don’t play with those!”
She struck it to life. The flame flickered and she cupped it. Nurtured it. Her eyes grew in the small orange light.
Rosalee Wyatt smiled.
“Baby? Baby, please, no—”
“I forgive you, Papa—”
The Tree Man burned.