This flame, this small, almost inconsequential flame. I'd named it. And so it had sat, waiting for me to order it. Not moving because I hadn't ordered it to. Not tipping over because I hadn't given it permission to.

It just hovered, waiting.

I let go of Bronte and reached out for it. The flame warmed my fingertips but didn't burn.

When I thought of it sliding into my palm, it obeyed. Moving down my fingertips with the same softness of a feather until it sat in the center of my open hand.

"Oh, my God," I breathed.

A crash thundered from the far side of the room. I jerked out of my thoughts in time to see my recliner in the book nook on its side and yards away from where it should have been, with Bronte's being thrown back next.

Cyril let out a cry of pain.

I jumped to my feet, still cradling the tiny flame in my hand, the pocket watch in the other. My mind snapped back to Noah's words. How fire was a purifying force.

If it worked once, I prayed it would work again.

When I thought of the flame growing, it did. The drop expanded, greedily consuming the air, until it was about the size of a tennis ball.

"Where is it?" I shouted.

Their voices sounded like they were everywhere. Without Bronte to guide me, I couldn't pinpoint the ghosts and the monster.

Oliver must have glanced in my direction because he let out a sharp hiss. "Stella! Your hand—"

"It's fine—where is it?"

"It's fine?" he repeated, then must have seen the fire wasn't burning. "What in God's name is happening?"

"Just tell me where it is!" I shouted.

"Above the dining table!" Cyril shouted.

I spun around and held up my hand like I'd seen in every super hero movie ever. The fire, mimicking my thoughts, shot forward like a beam. A beam of fire hurtling toward my dining table.

Panicked, my mind thought of the fire spreading.

And it did. It jumped from the dining table to the walls, the carpet, the pictures.

Another panicked thought that I didn't want anything to burn.

And it didn't. The fire spread but didn't consume.

"Focus," I whispered to myself, imagining the fire in the dining area being extinguished.

Following my thoughts, the fire faded until I was left with the ball of it in my hand.

"Did I get it?"

"No—just barely mis—" Oliver let out a grunt, stopping midsentence.

The monstrous growling became angrier.

And it might have been my imagination, but I imagined it was closer too.

"I can't freaking see it!" I shouted, taking a step backward. I glanced down to make sure I wasn't stepping on Bronte, but she was still locked in her vision.

My head swiveled, eyes straining, hoping to see it. All the while I concentrated on the flame in my hand, silently willing it not to burn anything except the monster.

I kept looking, but there was nothing. Not a faint shadow or ghostly glimmer. The apartment looked completely normal—aside from everything thrown about and giant claw marks raked across the front door.

"Come on, Ted," I said, using my most insufferably obnoxious tone, "let's play a game."

It hissed, the sound, I thought, coming from behind me. Over the TV screen.

Spinning, I shot another wave of fire. Willing it to connect with the monster, to not spread, to not burn anything but him, to leave Cyril and Oliver untouched.

It didn't connect. The misfire faded until it was extinguished.

"Marco?" I mumbled, straining to hear.

"Mantle!" Cyril shouted.

I spun to the fireplace and fired again. But it missed, the fire fizzling away.

The creature's laughter seemed to come from everywhere.

Then it turned hysterical and giddy as Oliver shouted, "Cyril!

Cyril cried out.

Adrenaline spiked through me.

I whirled around, furious that I couldn't see anything, furious at my ineptitude, furious at–

Something grabbed onto my leg.

I screamed. The fire wrapped around my fist and I was about ready to punch at whatever grabbed hold of me.

But it was Bronte. She was breathing heavily, tears streaming down her face. Her entire body shook with internal sobs. Sweat caused her hair to stick to her face, her neck. Her freckles stood out so noticeably against her pale skin.

Blood dripped from her nose.

She whispered something, her hoarse voice cracking and breaking.

I dropped down to be closer to her.

She repeated it around the sobs spasming through her. "N-Nathan El-gin."

His name.

His freaking name.

I straightened, the fire still coiled around my fist, and shouted at the top of my lungs, "Nathan Elgin, freeze!"

"It's still moving!" Oliver shouted.

Why?

Because he hadn't given it to me.

Panicked, I thought of every video game, every book, every movie I ever saw. Every fantasy story, every epic adventure with names and the power of things.

I had his name. I had the name of the flame in my hand. They were separate. I needed to connect them.

To bind them.

"Bind them!" I shouted. Then I drew the flame close to my lips, like Gollum with the Ring. "Find Nathan Elgin. Burn him, bind him. Do not leave him until he's gone."

The fire flew from my hand, leaving my palm completely. Sudden, unexpected coldness rushed to fill the void.

For an infinite moment, I couldn't tell if it worked. The flame hovered before me as silence descended. Just a stretch of silence, too new to be uneasy or relieved.

Then the flame moved, throwing itself sharply to the left.

Mere inches from where I stood.

Nathan Elgin roared as the fire struck his hand. Then it spread. Consuming, eating, growing. It washed over him like a swarm until his form flickered around the room. The malevolent bouncy ball, doing a ghostly version of stop-drop-and roll.

Shrieking and yelling filled the room. I flinched from the sound, dropping down beside Bronte, my eyes fixed on the ghost's burning form.

He roared like a caged, whipped tiger. He howled like a burgled dragon, returning to find its gold missing. And he thrashed as if he were a demon doused in holy water.

It took me a moment to realize words layered the screams. "Mercy! Mercy, psychic!"

"Give me your name."

"I am Nathan Elgin. Please, mercy, pl–"

"Stop moving, Nathan Elgin. And stop screaming."

The burning form froze near the center of the room and another silence fell.

I turned to Bronte. She was unconscious, with tear tracks streaking through her sweat and salt face. Even asleep, she shook. Like she couldn't get warm. Or she was still seeing whatever trapped her sight.

I brushed wet hair from her face. "Bronte? Bronte, can you hear me?"

"Stella..." Oliver's whispered voice sounded close, "is she going to be alright?"

"Yes" I said, more out of reflex than knowing. I had no idea if she was going to be alright as my hands hovered uselessly over her, unsure what to do, how to help.

A chillness I knew was Cyril touched my arm.

Behind us, the fire continued to burn. And the monster remained absolutely still, unable to scream as it consumed him completely.