Standing up again, he surveyed the damage. The sheepskin rug had caught like tinder, a bright puddle of flame on the floor, fueled by the book that Luke had been reading, its pages blackening and shriveling in the heat. The sofa, where Luke had been sitting, was smoldering in a dozen places. But where was Luke?

"Jet?"

The voice came from behind the sofa. Ethan hurried over. Luke was crouched on the ground, coughing, choking. Ethan nuzzled at his face, then glanced around. The room was filling with smoke, little pockets of fire taking hold all over the place. Luke raised a hand and laid it on Ethan's head, holding his gaze.

There was no time for dissimulation. Ethan licked at Luke's cheek and shifted. "Get out of here, Luke," he ordered, his voice rough and rusty from lack of use.

Luke's eyes went wide as he stared up at Ethan. "What? Who?"

"I said, get out of here!" He grabbed Luke by the arm and dragged him to his feet, then placed a swift but passionate kiss on those soft, full lips. "Go now, get! I'll deal with this."

"But--"

"Just go. I'll be with you in a minute."

Ethan waited just long enough to see that Luke had obeyed, then grabbed the throw from the back of the sofa and approached the Molotov cocktail, which was now lying on the wooden floor, still aflame, still intact. Ethan didn't know whether the damn thing would explode or not, but if it did, it could set the whole house alight. Holding his breath, he pulled out the burning plug and threw it onto the remains of the rug, then swaddled the bottle in the throw and hurled it back out the broken window.

The immediate danger was past -- now to see to the rest of it. Ethan looked around him, assessing his priorities. The sheepskin rug was a pile of greasy ashes, only the flames from the plug still alive. The sofa was scarred and smoldering, but not yet actually on fire. Patches of fuel still burned on the floor, but the sturdy wood resisted. Ethan tore down the curtains and used them to smother the flames, then ran into the kitchen and fetched the little fire extinguisher from its bracket on the wall, next to the stove. Aiming the nozzle at the sofa, he squirted it again and again, until the cylinder was empty.

Ethan's eyes were stinging from the acrid, thick black smoke filling the room. As far as he could see, the flames had all disappeared. The sofa was secure. There was nothing more he could do. All in all, he considered, it could have been much worse. Except that now, having involuntarily outed himself to Luke, he'd have no choice but to leave and go back on the road. Surprised at how much the prospect pained him, he succumbed to a fit of coughing as the sound of approaching sirens reached his ears.

Ethan glanced at his blistered fingers and palms. His face and left shoulder stung from where sparks had lingered too long in his fur. Apart from that, he appeared to be intact. "Well," he murmured, "I guess it was good while it lasted." Stifling another cough, he shifted back into doggy form and went outside to join his soon-to-be-ex master.