Jim’s eyes rolled up in the sockets of the charred skull. “Killed me dead.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Plenty of that going around. Plenty of dragon fever. It’s not finished. More to come. Fire can’t burn it away. But it can sure try.”

From behind her, it breathed, and its breath ignited her like kindling.

“Hey, hey.” Gull pulled her to sitting, shaking her by the shoulders on the way. “Snap out of it.”

She shoved at him, gulping for air, but he tightened his grip. He couldn’t see her clearly, but he could feel her, hear her. The shakes and tremors, the cold sweat, the whistle of air as she fought for breath.

“You had a nightmare.” He spoke more calmly now. “A bad one. It’s done.”

“Can’t breathe.”

“You can. You are, just too fast. You’re going to hyperventilate if you keep it up. Slow it down, Rowan.”

Even as she shook her head, he started rubbing her shoulders, moving up her neck where the muscles strained stiff as wire. “It’s a panic attack. You know that in your head. Let the rest of you catch up. Slow it down.”

He saw her eyes now as his own vision adjusted, wide as planets. She pressed a hand to her chest where he imagined the pressure crushed like an anvil. “Breathe out, long breath out. Long out, slow in. That’s the way. Let go of it. Do it again, smooth it out. You’re okay. Keep it up, in and out. I’m going to get you some water.”

He let her go to roll to her cooler, grab a bottle.

“Don’t guzzle,” he warned her. “We’re in slow mode.” When she gulped the first swallow, he tipped the bottle down. “Easy.”

“Okay.” She took another, slower sip. She stopped, went back to breathing, with more control, less trembling. “Wow.”

He touched her face, leaned in to rest his brow on hers. The shudder he’d held back rocked through him.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“That makes two of us. I didn’t scream, did I?” She glanced toward the door as she asked.

Trust her, Gull thought, to worry about embarrassing herself with the rest of the crew. “No. It was like you were trying to and couldn’t get it out.”

“I was on fire. I swear I could feel my skin burning, smell my hair going up. Pretty damn awful.”

“How often do you have them?” Now that the crisis had passed, he could coddle her a little—a comfort to himself, too. So he touched his lips to her forehead as he shifted to rub her back and shoulders.

“I never used to have them. Or just the usual monster-in-the-closet deal once in a while when I was a kid. But I started having them after Jim. Replaying the jump, then how we found him. They eased off over the winter, but started coming back at the start of the season. And they’re getting worse.”

“You found another fire victim, someone else you knew. That would kick it up some.”

“He’s started to talk to me in them—cryptic warnings. I know it’s my head putting words in his mouth, but I can’t figure it out.”

“What did he say tonight?”

“That it wasn’t finished. There’d be more coming. I guess I’m worried there will be, and that’s probably all there is to it.”

“Why are you worried?”

“Well, Jesus, Gull, who isn’t?”

“No, be specific.”

“Be specific at half past whatever in the morning after twisting myself up into a panic attack?”

The irritation in her tone settled him down. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know. If I knew, I’d... Dolly and Latterly, obviously that’s connected. The odds of them both running afoul of some homicidal arsonist are just short of nil. If we were dealing with random, that would be cause for some serious worry. But this isn’t, and they’re probably going to bust Brakeman for the whole shot. But...”

“But you’re having a hard time buying he’d set fire to his own daughter’s body. So am I.”

“Yeah, but that’s what makes the most sense. He finds out Dolly’s not only lying but screwing the preacher. They fight about it, he kills her—in a rage, by accident, however. Then panics, does the rest. It broke something in him.”

Tears running down his face, she remembered.

“He shoots at us, kills Latterly. Case closed.”

“Except you don’t quite believe it. Hence—”

“Hence,” she repeated, and snickered.

“That’s right. Hence you have nightmares where Jim—who’s connected to you and to Dolly—verbalizes what you’re already thinking, at least on a subconscious level.”

“Thanks, Dr. Freud.”

“And your fifty minutes are up. You should catch the couple hours’ sleep we’ve got left.”

“We’re still on the floor. The floor was most excellent, but for sleep, the bed’s better.”

“The bed it is.” He rose, grabbed her hand to pull her up. Then, to make her laugh, swept her up in his arms.

Laugh she did. “I may have shed a few this season, but I’m still no lightweight.”

“You’re right.” He dropped her onto the bed. “Next time, you carry me.” He stretched out beside her. “One thing, it looks like your nightmare blew any potential tequila hangover out of me.”

“Always the bright side.”

He snuggled her in, gently stroking her back until he felt her drop off.

After the morning briefing, she got in her run, some weight training and power yoga with Gull for company. She had to admit, having someone who could keep up with her, and more, made the daily routine more fun.

They hit the dining hall together where Dobie slumped over a plate of toast and what Rowan recognized as a glass of Marg’s famed hangover cure.

“Mmm, look at these big, fat sausages.” Rowan clattered the top back on the warmer. “Nothing like pig grease in the morning.”

“I’ll hurt you when I can move without my head blowing up.”

“Hangover?” she asked sweetly. “Gosh, I feel great.” There might have been a dull, gnawing ache at the base of her skull, but all things considered, small price to pay.

“Hurt you, and all your kin. Your pets, too.”