There'd be a nursery rhyme about tonight, one day.
But Duncan didn't know that. He threw his cloak across his face against the smoke and he shoved in a door with his shoulder.
Flames spilled out; his cloak smouldered; the part of him that still feared pain flinched back. But he pushed past it and walked into the building.
As he did, his sleeves caught fire, but by the time he walked out again, a coughing girl of about five under one arm, the burns had vanished.
His clothes were wrecked, anyway - he'd been at this for two days, and the fire showed no sign of letting up. He left the child with her mother and moved on, waving away the woman's thanks.
Plenty of people were trapped, and Duncan's ability to help was unique in London, at least right now.
Or so he thought.
He felt it as he barged into the next house: that unmistakable throbbing hum at the base of his skull. Another Immortal, deeper inside the house.
The hilt of Duncan's sword was hot to the touch, but put his hand to it and shoved his way through the house, up a rickety, half-burned-away wooden staircase.
But by the time he got to the top of the house, the buzz was receding fast.
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