Silver Lining

by Skye Warren

  Fingers brush my chest, leaving trails of sparks in their wake.

  The room resolves into a familiar place. I recognize the bars and the walls, and most of all, the man with his head bowed over me, green eyes shadowed. He’s tending to me. Working at something on my side. White gauze and sterile tape. Whatever he’s doing hurts and an echo of the pain reminds me not to grit my teeth so hard.

  “We keep meeting this way.” His eyes flick up to my face, widening at my dry, raspy voice. Relief flashes there, but it’s as quick as lightning. “In dark basements. Behind bars.”

  There’s a sound in my throat. A soft whimper of recognition.

  “Starting to feel like home, isn’t it?” The corner of his mouth twists. “Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe you wish you’d wake up somewhere else. Sorry about this next part.”

  What next part? Then he’s doing something to raw flesh, and I sob at the newly cutting pain.

  “Shh,” he murmurs, sympathy thick in his voice. “I’ll be quick.”

  I wish I could sink into the cot, but no matter how hard I press against it, it doesn’t open up and swallow me whole. Maybe that dragon was real. Maybe it’s breathing again, because sweat beads along my hairline and my eyes burn. A tear slips out along my teeth and now Elijah curses, his face dark with fury and guilt.

  The expression he wears hurts almost as much as whatever he’s doing. I have the strongest urge to look but I can’t move my head, can’t tip my chin down, don’t want to see. Oh, he blames himself for this. It’s written in every line of him. In his furrowed brow and the set of his shoulders and his teeth set tight together. His anger highlights the hard cut of his jaw. He’s so gorgeous it hurts.

  I want to reassure him, lift my hand to his cheek to follow the lines and curves there. Lifting my arm seems like too much work. Telling him I’ll be fine would be an obvious lie. And besides, I’m not sure I could speak. I can’t imagine how I could get up from this cot and walk away.

  It’s not so urgent, is it? Elijah doesn’t seem to think so.

  “Here,” he says. “Drink some water.”

  There’s no time to tell him no, that I can’t, that the liquid would burn my cuts all the way down. There’s already a glass at my lips. He tips it up, and water sluices down my throat. I gasp at the sensation. Tears sting my eyes.

  “More.” He’s merciless.

  I yank my head away, sending a splash of water over my cheek, down my neck, curling at the nest of hair beneath me. It’s biting cold against my overheated body. Ice against the sidewalk on a summer day in Paris—melting, melting. “No.”

  He wants to argue with me. I can sense that in the air, but he relents. Instead there’s warm metal on my tongue. Salt. Broth. The soup goes down easier. I swallow, closing my eyes.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Thank you,” he repeats, his voice dry. Dry enough to be a desert. Dry enough to be the cracked skin across a large body covered in scales. “You’re almost dead, and you’re the one thanking me. Of course you are. That’s our pattern. I get you killed, you thank me.”

  The words rush over me like a breath of too-hot air. They feel like fire. I know there’s something in them I should argue, something I should protest, but the logic won’t form in my mind. All I know is that I’m hurting, and so is he. We’re both aching.

  We’re both becoming someone new.

  “Are we in France?”

  A quirk of his lips. He hasn’t shaved. That’s the only thing that registers. I want to run my fingers across his jaw to feel the bristles, the bite. “No. We’re far away from France.”

  I force the sounds past my swollen lips. “Italy?”

  “No, sweetheart. We’re a lot closer to home, and in more danger than we ever were overseas. Would that we were still in a French prison or in a gunfight through the Italian countryside. Those places would be infinitely safer than this.”

  My mind feels sluggish. Maybe it’s the effects of the transition, flesh ripped apart and then sewed back together. Maybe this is what mermaids feel like when they’re on land.

  No. That’s not right. I realize that now. I’m not a mermaid. That was a fever dream.

  In reality I’m a woman, an ordinary woman, and this is Elijah. A soldier.

  I tried to protect him. What hope did I have of that? Very little, but that didn’t stop me. Love conquers all. That’s what they teach you as a child. That’s what my parents taught me, and it did feel as if their love could hold back the world. They didn’t face bullets from the U.S. Army, I suppose. Love did nothing to block those.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, my tongue thick. The pain wants to drag me under, but I’m fighting it. This feels important, this moment with Elijah, his guilt like a phantom in the room.

  I’m the one who shot the colonel. I’m the one who should suffer the consequences.

  He gives a hard shake of his head. “No. Don’t.”

  I’m not sorry I shot him. I’m only sorry I got hurt doing it. “Leave the country.”

  He gives me a look like I’m insane. “You wouldn’t even survive the drive to the airport, sweetheart, much less a transatlantic flight.”

  “You.”

  Grief rips through his eyes. “And leave you here to—what? Die? Be arrested for treason? Fuck you for even suggesting that, sweetheart. No. Absolutely not.”

  “My fault.”

  Green is the most beautiful color. The color of dragons. Those green eyes watch me with a possessive gaze, as if I’m made of pure gold. “It’s my fault for letting that man within six feet of you. My fault for not killing him years ago. You were a warrior in there.”

  “What will we do?”

  Uncertainty. It’s only there for a flash. Half a second and then it’s gone. In its place there’s the determination that I’m used to seeing, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen beneath his armor. He doesn’t know how to protect us anymore. “No one knows we’re here.”

  “You own?” Does he own the church?

  A huff of humorless laughter. “Ironic, isn’t it? A man like me owning the church. You’d think it would have gone up in flames the moment I signed the papers. Just more proof that there’s no god anywhere to be found in those pews.”

  He forces more of the broth down my throat until I pull my head back again. This time it’s warm, salty soup that runs down my throat to pool at the hollow there.

  His gaze is fierce, his touch gentle as he wipes me up. “No one knows I own this place. It’s buried under layers of shell corporations. It won’t be easy to uncover.”

  Not easy but not impossible. And the U.S. government will have resources the average person does not. That means we’re sitting in an hourglass, each grain of sand falling, leading closer and closer to the time when we’re discovered.

  What happens then? Nothing good.

  “Your brothers.”

  “I’m not involving them. This goes beyond what North Security can handle. Even sharing their last name is enough to get them questioned at this point.”

  “They would want to help you.” The words come out hoarse, because I want to help him. The same way I tried to help my sister on that urgent plane ride to Paris. Clumsily, armed only with a sense of right and wrong, with a love not strong enough to block bullets.

  He swallows hard. “It doesn’t matter what they want.”

  Those are the words he says, but what I hear is, It doesn’t matter what I want. Everyone wants their family. Even someone from a dark past full of abuse like him. He’s alone.

  That’s when I realize I’m alone, too.

  Even if I manage to heal enough to stand up, to walk out of this church, I’ll never be able to go back to my family, not with this murder on my hands. It would be too dangerous for them. They would be harboring a fugitive. I’ll never see London again. Never see my mom or my dad again. A tear slips down my cheek, following the trail of cooled broth.

  Pain detaches itself from the space under his hands and curls lower
to rest on my belly. Not as heavy down there. When it settles, I can bear it.

  My eyelids are heavy, though, heavier by the minute.

  Sleep feels cool, like the water I craved. I still crave it, but my lips won’t form the words. I’ll drink later. There will be a later, at least.

  The pressure lifts off the wound and tension runs out of my body like rain. A careful hand brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead and smooths it down.

  That’s the last thing I feel before my head slips under the surface.

  CHAPTER THREE

  London

  These stairs are going to kill me.

  I know, I know. The cocaine addiction will probably get me in the end. But the three flights to my walkup in Red Hook are giving the coke a run for its money. At least the stairs get my heart pumping and fresh oxygen into my blood. A girl needs to be revitalized after an endless day ringing up bougie coffee orders and having her face blasted by the moisture from a steam wand. The scent of espresso drifts off my clothes as I make the third-floor landing. The scent of coffee grounds follows me even into my dreams. Hazard of the job.

  The key sticks in the lock and I force it, mapping out the path to the shower. Kick my shoes off at the door. Shirt off by the time I’m through the postage-stamp living room with my ratty couch.

  Do not pass go, do not get dinner, do not do anything but climb into the water and stand there as long as it’s hot. I kick off my shoes, drop my purse, and step into the living room.

  I’m reaching for the hem of my shirt when I see it, see him, and freeze.

  The couch isn’t empty.

  There’s a dead body on it.

  I should run screaming in the other direction. I should call the cops, sobbing and hysterical. Part of me knows this, but the bigger part of me is… curious. It’s always been my downfall.

  A step closer. And another. The large mass of muscled man compiles into someone I know. It’s Adam Black. The man who kidnapped my sister.

  The man who saved her, too.

  My heart crawls up into my throat. What is he doing here, in my apartment? I know I locked the door when I left. Did he manage to pick the lock in this condition? With that much blood on his shirt, he didn’t fight his way in here.

  I don’t have time to consider the implications of the still-intact lock on the door, not really. Not when there’s a dead man on my couch. A cold flash freezes the back of my neck, followed by a hot flush of panic. Smuggling diamonds is one thing. Dealing with a dead body is another. The police are out of the question for a man like Adam. For a woman like me.

  My pulse slams against my eardrums, working overtime, and I take a deep breath. It does nothing to crack open the icy fear encasing my lungs. Think of him as a man asleep on a couch, London. One step closer. One more. There.

  From this vantage point—hovering over him, a half-step from the couch—things look even worse. His shirt has caved in to the wound below it. The fabric is soaked in blood. Adam has his face turned toward the back of the couch and he looks so still, so horribly still.

  A bruise paints one of his cheeks.

  I reach for him before I know what I’m doing. Oh, god. What if he’s cold?

  If he’s cold, it’s too late, it’s way too late. I’m going to have to walk out of this apartment and never come back, not ever. I’ll have to convince Holly not to look for me, and she won’t be convinced. I know she won’t.

  My fingertips are a whisper away from the purple bruise when he moves, a hand shooting out to grab my wrist. I suck a huge breath in for a scream and then swallow the sound, jagged edges and all. My pulse is too big for my veins, the silvery burst of adrenaline so powerful it feels like an electric shock. His eyes meet mine with sharp focus.

  “Who did this to you?” My voice sounds thin and high and I swallow that, too. No time for falling apart now. “Who hurt you?”

  His pupils recede, and he lets his head fall back on the one throw pillow I own. “An old friend.”

  My mouth has gone dry, but I manage a casual tone. “With friends like that, who needs enemies?”

  He huffs his amusement, focus slipping away from me and onto the ceiling. “I have enemies, too. Believe me, they’re worse.”

  I detach his hand from my wrist and run my fingers through my hair. “Jesus. Okay. You’re here in my apartment. And you’re hurt, you’re dying, you’re—”

  “Shot.” He winces as he pushes himself up against the arm of the couch. Not upright, but inclined. I can tell he pays a cost for this. “You can look, if you’re interested.”

  “If I’m interested.” My lips buzz with a new bolt of adrenaline. What else is there to do but lift his shirt away from the wound? We both fumble with the project until the formerly gray fabric is over Adam’s head. There’s more blood underneath. Too much to see what I’m doing. “I’m going to help you, but first I need to freak the fuck out. Wait here.”

  “No, I’ve got to go. I’ve got an important meeting.” A wry smile curves his lips, but he lays his head back on the arm of the couch and clenches his jaw.

  I soak a clean towel through with hot water, studiously ignoring my shaking hands. And then I return to where Adam’s breathing fast and shallow on the couch, the bloodied t-shirt clenched in one fist. He lets out a breath when I perch on the couch next to him, and another one when I touch the towel to his skin. “Be quick about it,” he says, his teeth gritted.

  When the worst of the blood has laid claim to the towel I can see the wound.

  Small. Raw. Circular. A bullet wound. I thought my heart couldn’t beat faster, but it does. “You need a hospital. I’m not a doctor. I don’t even play one on TV. This is ridiculous.”

  “No fucking hospitals.” His eyes go black with this, spearing through mine.

  “You’re delirious. You’re drunk on pain and probably blood loss.”

  “I’m stone-cold sober.”

  I fold the sacrificed towel up and toss it toward the kitchen. “I don’t know how to treat a gunshot wound, Adam. What am I supposed to do? Put a Band-Aid on it?”

  His eyes do that thing again, sliding away from my face to some distant point behind me, and a cold point of fear pricks at my gut. His lips curl in amusement. “Google it.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  The shake in my voice seems to sober him. “No. It’s not funny. I’ll need tweezers. And towels. Lots of them. More than that scrap you had before. All the towels you own, probably.”

  “I hope this part is a joke.”

  He narrows his eyes. “And alcohol.”

  “To clean the wound?”

  “No, to drink. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

  Not a joke. Not a joke at all. This has passed a new threshold for serious situations in my life. A man is literally dying on my couch. I’m the only one here to save him.

  “Now,” prompts Adam, and up and moving again. Tweezers are in the bathroom. All of my clean towels are shoved into one rickety closet, and the closet won’t give them up. It’s like the closet wants him to die. Fuck the closet. That’s not happening tonight, not if I can help it. And I’m going to have to help it. There’s nobody else.

  In the kitchen I pull down a single fifth of vodka from the cupboard over the fridge. It’s never been opened. The top refuses to give, my fingers slippery around the ridges, until I take a deep breath and force it.

  Back in the living room, Adam has dropped the t-shirt and has one hand pressed next to the wound. Not on top of it, but close, as if he can’t bear to touch it. He takes the vodka with his free hand and drinks and drinks and drinks until I’m forced to think about stopping him. How much alcohol is too much when you’re trying to save yourself from a gunshot wound?

  The bottle’s half gone when he puts it down on the floor and holds his hand out for the tweezers.

  I take a deep breath. “Are you sure—”

  He snaps his fingers, and I drop them into his open palm.

  Adam doesn’t h
esitate. For a guy who’s just downed too much vodka, he’s surprisingly deft as he flips them into his fingers and digs them into the wound. My entire body freezes, watching this. Watching the serious lines in his face get overtaken by the pain. His teeth catch his lower lip and press down hard. My heart goes wild with how useless I am, with how raw this is, and I’m going to explode. I’m on the verge of begging him to stop when he gives the tweezers a sharp yank.

  A bullet dangles from the end of them. Adam holds it up in front of his face. Inspecting it? Reassuring himself that it’s out? His eyes roll back in his head and he’s out before I can ask.

  I put a hand on his shoulder and rub. “Adam.”

  No answer.

  I check his pulse. It’s still there.

  “This is really not funny,” I tell him, and he doesn’t respond with so much as a twitch of his eyelids. Because now I do have to Google how to wash and bandage the wound. What the fuck was he going to do with the towels? I can’t just dry off the blood and hope it seals itself up.

  I open up a private browser on my phone and type in the search.

  Keep the wound clean and dry. Wash with clean water twice per day.

  Apply Vaseline to the wound. Cover with clean bandage or other cloth.

  Jesus. I have Vaseline, I think, but if I need bandages I’ll have to run down to the store. And I should do it soon, before the wound bleeds anymore or gets infected because all I could come up with was a ratty t-shirt ripped into strips.

  I take my last bottle of water out of the fridge and use it to wash out the bullet hole while he’s still unconscious. It seems like the smart thing to do, even if the Google search result didn’t explicitly say so.

  And then I check the living room window.

  Nothing looks too suspicious down on the street. No lurking figures or white vans. Still, my heartbeat gets faster, louder. “The NSA definitely tracked that search,” I murmur to my reflection in the window. “I hope this was worth it.” I hope you were worth it, Adam.

  My reflection has no answer for that.