When Snow and Flames Collide

Chapter 8: Living with a Firefly: A Guide to Not Get Burned

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Daniel's POV

The car screeched to a halt, gravel spitting beneath its tires. We tumbled out, Nessa still fast asleep with her head nestled against Sam's shoulder. The porch lights blared awake, revealing the etched lines of worry on Ma, Charlotte, and Diana's faces.

Dad pushed past us, his silhouette swallowed by the open doorway. We followed, the weight of their gazes heavy on our backs.

"How are they?" Ma's voice trembled, the question catching like a sob in her throat.

"What happened?" Charlotte chimed in, her usually bright eyes narrowed with concern.

Before a barrage of questions could turn us into suspects in a living room interrogation, I stepped forward. "Hold on," I interjected, my voice hoarse from repressed tension. "Nessa's fine. Sam just... had a bad acquaintance in the form of a large vase."

Diana's face was drained of color. "How is he now?" she asked, reaching out to gently pry Sam from my arms.

"He'll be alright," I forced a smile, the taste of worry metallic on my tongue. "Tough as nails, that one."

Mom cut through the tense silence. "Let's get inside. We can talk about this in the morning." Dad grunted in agreement, a furrow etching across his brow.

All gone to their respective rooms.

But sleep wouldn't come easily. My mind replayed the scene with Amber, a broken shard of glass clutched in her hand, her intentions shrouded in terrifying ambiguity.

Was she aiming for Stawarski, intentionally? What twisted motive lurked beneath that chilling act?

If that were to happen, what would've been the headline the next day?

Headlines flashed behind my closed eyelids, each iteration more gruesome than the last: 

"Red Rage at the Masquerade" 

"Blood Spills on Celebratory Night" 

"Found a red head and someone dead" 

I paced like a caged animal, the room shrinking with each paranoid step.

Never, ever, did I wish for a masquerade stained with crimson. But the chilling images burned in my mind, fueling an unsettling dread.

Seeking refuge from the haunting visions, I tumbled into bed and burrowed under the covers, cocooning myself in a desperate attempt to escape the nightmare brewing within. Sleep eventually arrived, its embrace as shallow as my attempts to forget the night's chilling events.

The next morning I see the cavernous dining table loomed before me, as I climb down.

Its polished expanse mockingly dwarfing the seven figures huddled around it. It's capable of seating twenty, the table now held only seven. Aaron's mantra about "plenty of seats for families and guests" echoed hollowly in my mind.

Dad's guests, investors, random office parties keep happening so they need extra chairs for it.

Taking a seat, I scanned the empty chair beside me – another reserved for Izzy, the resident feline who was currently circling the room, tail twitching in indecision. The silence pressed down, heavier than expected. Shouldn't there be a heated exchange, a simmering argument?

Even the usual family "warfare" would've been a welcome distraction.

"So," I ventured, hoping to crack the ice, "I wanted to ask about –"