Authors: Sandy Williams
Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Contemporary
The Shadow Reader (16 page)
Damn it. Why the hell do I care?
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asks.
“I’m following the road,” I answer tersely.
“Can the humans follow this car?”
I check the rearview mirror. “There’s no one behind us.”
“No,” he says. “With tech. Can they track us using tech?”
Oh. I study the panel of gauges behind the wheel. How can you tell if a car’s rigged with OnStar or something?
“There’s a second gate to the north of the inn,” Aren says. “Sosch can help us find it.”
He must not know exactly where it is. Without Sosch, we could walk right past it.
Wait. We? What the hell am I thinking? I need to ditch this fae. I’m about to insist he fissure out again when he pushes Sosch into the backseat, then takes off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I swivel my eyes away from him and stare at the road, trying not to remember the way his body looked when his torso was covered in nothing but silver dust.
“Bleeding,” he responds. He tears the shirt down its center.
I give in to temptation and glance over when he tears the shirt again. He wraps the strips of cloth around his injured shoulder. His abs clench when he pulls the bandage tight. Damn.
I focus on driving. He’s
not
attractive. He can’t be, not when he’s covered in blood and bruises.
And not all the blood is his,
I remind myself. I don’t know how many humans he’s killed. That alone should make me want to get rid of him as soon as possible. The thing is, I’m comfortable with him sitting beside me. It’s insane, but he makes me feel almost as safe as Kyol always has.
not
attractive. He can’t be, not when he’s covered in blood and bruises.
And not all the blood is his,
I remind myself. I don’t know how many humans he’s killed. That alone should make me want to get rid of him as soon as possible. The thing is, I’m comfortable with him sitting beside me. It’s insane, but he makes me feel almost as safe as Kyol always has.
I frown, thinking about that. Then suddenly, it all makes sense.
“Stockholm syndrome,” I whisper, my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.
Aren looks at me. “What?”
The Stockholm syndrome. It explains everything. I’m identifying with my kidnapper, forming some type of sick, emotional bond with him. That’s why I saved him and why I’m concerned about his well-being now. It’s probably the reason I’m feeling drawn to him. My mind magnifies every little kindness he shows me, making me believe he cares for me when he really doesn’t.
“You okay?” Aren asks.
“No,” I snap. “I’m not. I’m psychologically impaired.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Fissure out.”
“McKenzie,” he says, sounding as if he’s disappointed in me.
“Now, damn it.” I swing my arm at him, hit his shoulder.
He grunts. “I can’t go anywhere while we’re moving.”
I slam on the brake, shove the gearshift into park, and then wait, but he doesn’t budge. He just sits there staring at me. “I’m not kidding, Aren. Fissure. Out.”
He sighs and I think he’s finally going to comply when he says, “I’m very sorry about this.”
“Sorry about wha—”
His hand darts out, grabs the keys, and pulls them from the ignition.
I lunge across the center console, reaching for them. I’m screwed if I don’t get them back, but Aren fends me off.
“I can’t let you go,” he says.
“Give me the fucking keys!” I make a second attempt to grab them. He holds them away and bats my hands down. I manage to catch his wrist, but my momentum and a small jerk from him causes me to half fall into his lap. A smile starts to appear on his lips, so I slam my fist into his injured shoulder.
“Nom Sidhe,”
he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. When the keys fall to the floorboard, I reach between his legs to grab them. Before I straighten, he wraps an arm around my waist and then kicks open his door.
he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. When the keys fall to the floorboard, I reach between his legs to grab them. Before I straighten, he wraps an arm around my waist and then kicks open his door.
I throw an elbow toward his gut. He blocks it, pulls me across his lap, and nearly throws me out of the car. I drop the keys to grab the oh-shit handle above the door with both hands as Aren rises out of the car, keeping his arm around me.
“Let go of the handle.”
“Let go of
me
!” I yell back. He pulls harder, lifting my feet off the ground. The handle is my only anchor to the car, but my grip is weakening. I kick, but he’s holding both my legs now.
me
!” I yell back. He pulls harder, lifting my feet off the ground. The handle is my only anchor to the car, but my grip is weakening. I kick, but he’s holding both my legs now.
“McKenzie.” He gives a final jerk and my hands slip. My teeth slice through my bottom lip when I land face-first on the damp roadside.
Aren flips me over and pins me to the ground. I buck and twist and try to shimmy out from under him.
“Relax,” he orders.
My left arm slips free. He recaptures it.
“Enough, McKenzie. Enough!”
I let my body go limp beneath him and force myself not to react when
edarratae
scramble from his hands into my arms. I fail miserably in the no-reaction department. I don’t move, but chaos lusters pulse under my skin, and the longer he touches me, the hotter they become. They’re not painful; they’re stirring and addictive.
edarratae
scramble from his hands into my arms. I fail miserably in the no-reaction department. I don’t move, but chaos lusters pulse under my skin, and the longer he touches me, the hotter they become. They’re not painful; they’re stirring and addictive.
“I hate you,” I whisper. His silver eyes follow a luster as it tickles over my shoulder, up my neck, and across my cheek.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, and then he gently presses his thumb to my bottom lip. I suck in a breath when he flares his magic to heal the small cut there, and it feels as if a thousand chaos lusters crash together in my stomach.
I fight back my frustration, turning my head to the side so I don’t have to look at him. “Will you let me up now?”
“Will you try to run?” When I don’t respond, he breathes out a warm sigh on my neck. “Stupid question. Of course you’ll try.”
Aren rises and pulls me to my feet. When he turns to open the car’s back door, I swoop down, grab the keys lying forgotten on the ground, and shove them into my pocket.
He searches the backseat a moment and then straightens. “This is a . . .”
I peek around his shoulder at the metal box in his hand. “It’s a first-aid kit.”
He nods, opens it up, and stares at its contents.
“You can’t heal yourself, can you?” I ask.
“No.” He sits on the edge of the seat, facing me. “Do you sew?”
I still, and a hint of nausea churns in my stomach. “No. I don’t.”
“My shoulder needs to be cleaned and closed.”
“No.” I look away, into the forest. He’s hurt, but I don’t think I can outrun him. Maybe he’ll grow weaker on the way to the gate? Then I can sprint back here and escape.
“McKenzie,” Aren says, a plea in his voice.
“I’m not sticking a needle into you,” I say, refocusing on him. Stitching a wound shut is a little too much for me. I can clean it, though. I look into the open kit on his lap. The vigilantes must have brought it with them. Everything is labeled in English. I spot a few butterfly bandages and pick them up. “I can use these to hold the wound together.”
“I’m bleeding too much for that.”
“Well, it’s that or nothing.”
His expression hardens. “Is this your new escape strategy? To let me bleed to death?”
“It’s not a bad idea.” In fact, that’ll be my backup plan if I can’t lure him away from the car.
“Fine.” He peers into the kit. “Which one of these will disinfect the wound?”
“The antiseptic wipes.”
“Which ones?” He takes off the ripped-up shirt he wrapped around himself no more than ten minutes ago. It’s dyed completely red now.
“They’re on the left.”
He tosses the shirt to the ground and pins me with a frustrated glare. “I can speak your language, McKenzie, but I can’t read it.”
I huff out a breath and grab one of the white packets. “It’s this one.” I rip the top off and take out the wipe. “You’re going to need more of these than we have.” He’s covered with dirt, sweat, and blood.
“Just clean it as well as you can.”
I run the towelette across the hole in his shoulder and down over his incredibly firm chest. God, he’s in shape. He’s thinner than Kyol, but has the same mouthwateringly toned physique. I try to ignore the hard muscles beneath my hand as I clean his wound. Mostly, the towelettes only smear the blood around. This isn’t going to prevent an infection. “You need a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine once we rejoin the others.”
“So fissure out. We’re not driving anymore. You can send someone back to this location in two minutes.” Two minutes would be enough time for me to jump into the driver’s seat and speed off.
He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”
I stop cleaning his shoulder to frown suspiciously into his eyes. “You can’t fissure, can you?”
“I can.” His jaw clenches. “I just can’t fissure very far, right now. The tech’s poison will fade by the time we reach the gate.”
“In your condition, you won’t make it to the gate.”
“It’s not far.”
“You can’t judge distances when you’re in a car.” Kyol can’t, at least. “We might be miles away from the river.”
“I’ll make it.”
“You’ll bleed to death.”
A smile breaks through his fatigued expression, and damn it if those chaos lusters don’t spring to life again in my stomach. You’d think my awareness of the whole Stockholm syndrome thing would make me immune to its effects, but no. It’s worse than ever.
“Your concern for my well-being is heartwarming,” he says. He
oomph
s when I slap a new wet wipe against his wound.
oomph
s when I slap a new wet wipe against his wound.
Sosch drapes himself across the ledge behind the backseat. His blue eyes blink, watching me work. I clean Aren off as well as I can, but don’t feel like I’m making any progress. Every time I put pressure on his shoulder, a new river of blood pours out. When I’m down to my last two towelettes, I decide it’s time to do what I can for the exit wound. The exit wound’s on his back, though, and short of sitting in his lap, there’s no easy way to get to it.
“Get out of the car.” I move so he can stand.
He grips the edge of the BMW’s roof, hefts himself to his feet, then turns and leans his forearms on the trunk. Damn, he has a beautiful back—minus the bullet wound and blood, of course. His shoulders are broad and the muscles to either side of his spine ripple when he adjusts his position. A chaos luster zigzags down his right rib cage and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants. The urge to trace its path with my hands is despicably strong, but I force myself to focus on the hole in his shoulder.
When I toss the last blood-soaked wipe into the backseat, Aren dips back into the car. He rummages through the first-aid kit for a needle and a spindle of something that looks more like floss than thread. He holds both up to me.
“I didn’t volunteer for that,” I say, keeping my eyes on his face.
He watches me a moment, then says softly, “You didn’t volunteer for any of this, did you?” He strings the thread through the needle himself, then, without hesitation, sticks it through the flesh beside his bullet wound. I grimace and look away.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
I keep my eyes on the dirt under my feet. He’s not what I expected either, but I won’t admit to that.
“I thought you’d be heartless,” he continues. “Cold, like Sword-master Taltrayn. You’re not.”
“The sword-master isn’t cold,” I say before I think better of it.
He pauses with the needle sticking through his skin. “Do you ever get tired of defending the Court?”
I shrug off the question. He almost has the wound closed, but his blood-slick fingers struggle to hold the needle and he can’t see what he’s doing anymore, no matter how far down he tries to tilt his chin. He won’t be able to sew up his back either.
“Here,” I growl and take the needle. Before I can back out, I stab it through his skin. I tug the thread tight, slip it under a few of the other stitches, then tie it off. “Turn around.” I grab his arm and spin him to face the car again. A few minutes later, he’s all stitched up. I wipe as much of the blood off him as I can before I tape gauze over the bullet’s entry and exit points.
Aren smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It was horrible,” I say, letting my gaze travel over him. He’s lost a lot of blood. Surely that’ll weaken him, slow him down some. “You sure you can make it to the gate?”
“I’m sure.” He leans inside the car, grabs my backpack, and then clucks to Sosch. The
kimki
darts inside the bag.
kimki
darts inside the bag.
I step to the side and motion for Aren to lead the way. He slips one strap of the backpack over his good shoulder, then holds out his hand.
“I don’t need my hand held.”
“McKenzie,” he says, his tone ever so patient.
I grind my teeth when I realize what he wants. Rolling my eyes, I take the keys out of my back pocket and chuck them at his chest.
ELEVEN
W
ITHIN THE HOUR, I’m wearing the Sosch-filled backpack and half carrying Aren through the forest. He resisted my help at first, and I watched him stumble along our weed-clogged “trail.” When the underbrush became too thick to pass, he used his sword to carve us a path. It wasn’t until he overswung and almost hit me that I finally ignored his protests and took the sword from him. He managed a weak laugh and said he was worried I’d strike him down with it. He’s not laughing anymore. He hasn’t said a word in more than twenty minutes, and I’m too exhausted to attempt conversation.
ITHIN THE HOUR, I’m wearing the Sosch-filled backpack and half carrying Aren through the forest. He resisted my help at first, and I watched him stumble along our weed-clogged “trail.” When the underbrush became too thick to pass, he used his sword to carve us a path. It wasn’t until he overswung and almost hit me that I finally ignored his protests and took the sword from him. He managed a weak laugh and said he was worried I’d strike him down with it. He’s not laughing anymore. He hasn’t said a word in more than twenty minutes, and I’m too exhausted to attempt conversation.
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