The weapons in Luc’s hands felt ineffectual, the rifle tainted, as he watched the men take off, spitting snow. Their arms bristled with guns, looking like some kind of Picasso vision of aggression. It was only after they’d disappeared down the drive that Luc felt his body again. Wet and freezing on the surface, but hot at its core. Burning up with rage.
Along with the return of sensation came the thought that, for these people, Isaiah and God might well be one and the same. The thought made him shudder, because he knew what men could do in the name of God, and he had a feeling this holy war was far from being over.
* * *
Abby sank to the floor. The knife clattered beside her, forgotten. Her skin was tight, her brain swollen. She watched Luc enter from her spot under the window and waited for him to see her there. “I’ll go,” she said.
“You can’t.”
Luc approached her slowly, that poker in one hand, his rifle in the other.
“Why did he give you that?”
Luc’s head dipped as he looked at his hands, and his “Hey, what are these doing here?” expression would have been comical if the situation weren’t such a mess.
He hurried to kneel in front of her, and Abby couldn’t help but pull back. It was just a little, but he noticed. He set the weapons down quickly, like hot potatoes.
“I left it against the shed where I found you. Earlier.” He watched her closely for a moment. “You remember that?”
“No,” whispered Abby.
“Abby,” he said, quiet too. Like they had a secret between them.
In that voice of his, with that accent, she could almost—almost—shut down and pretend this wasn’t happening. That he was feeding her something new, and she was tasting it, listening to him and thinking about all the things he could show her. All the new things she could experience.
“What’s going on, Abby?”
Oh good Lord, where to start? And how…how could she… She shifted and the blanket dipped and Abby realized, for the first time since coming to, that she was naked underneath. “I’m naked,” she said like an idiot, on a choppy exhale.
“Your clothes were soaked.” He paused. “And your…undergarment.”
That old thing?
She was delirious. Had to be.
She’d been naked with a man for the first time and hadn’t even been conscious for it. She could almost laugh. More than that, though she could cry, because this wasn’t how she’d envisioned it—any of it. The final escape, coming to Luc. Asking him for help. Being naked in front of him—or any man, for that matter.
And how sad that she wanted to ask, Did you like it? Am I ugly? Did you see how they hurt me?
“What’s going on, Abby?” Luc asked again, his words slow, his voice strange. “Why did you come here in the snow?”
Because I don’t want to die, she thought on a wave of something too big, too heavy for her alone. It crashed right into her, like that fireplace poker to the chest. It caved her chest in, infiltrating the empty spaces her departing adrenaline left behind, and bent her over, deflated.
Without a word, Luc had her against his chest, in those arms—and they were as strong as they looked. Effortlessly, he lifted her and brought her back to the sofa, murmuring something. Comforting sounds, maybe. No—they were words she couldn’t understand.
The blankets around her were warm. A nest. She watched vacantly as he got the fire roaring. After a while, he left and returned with his hands full. Some pills, a glass of water, and a pile of clothes.
“We need to get you to a doctor. A hospital, maybe. And I can call the sheriff—”
“No!” The word exploded from her, too loud for the room. “No police.” Never the police. Police and hospitals wouldn’t be good. They’d push Isaiah to do more violence. And everyone would suffer.
“You’re hur—”
“No hospital.”
“Okay, Abby. Okay,” he said, placating her. Like an animal or a child. “We get you cleaned up.” Oh, his English suffered when he was worried. How lovely. Abby smiled to herself as he disappeared up the stairs. A minute later, he returned. “Can you…” Luc started. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I brought you some of my clothing. It’s too big.” He held up a T-shirt with long sleeves. It looked soft and worn. “Can you do this on your own?”
“Oh. I think so.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “And this is ibuprofen. I’ll leave it for—”
“How do I take it?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Just swallow it with water?”
“Yes. Exact.” More English mistakes that sounded subconscious, exhausted. And that was because of her. Because she’d dragged him up and out of bed, and Isaiah’d been here, and now Luc would have problems with the Church. It’s all my fault.
“I’ll take them. What do they do?”
“You haven’t—” He cut himself off with a quick shake of his head. “It’s a painkiller. And reduces fever. Also inflammation.”
Abby wished their hands would touch as he dropped the pills into hers. She wished he would look at her and smile and make it all okay. But he didn’t. He stood, face turned away. “I’ll let you…” He indicated a door leading off the living room. “You sure you don’t need help?”
She shook her head and said, “Thank you, Luc.”
“I’ve got to…check on something. You’ll be fine going to the bathroom on your own?”
“Yes. Yes, fine.” To prove her point, she grabbed the clothes and the pills and waddled to the bathroom on sharply hurting feet.
15
Luc waited for her to disappear into the bathroom before going onto the front porch, pulling out the sheriff’s card, and dialing. Straight to voice mail, which agitated the hell out of him. Instead of leaving a message—the hardest thing to do in English, as far as Luc was concerned—he called the other number on the card: dispatch.
“Blackwood Sheriff’s Department, how may I direct your call?”
“I need to speak to the sheriff.”
“Is this an emergency, sir?”
He hesitated, focused on where the cabin was and whether anyone could get to them through the pelting snow. Was it an emergency? He swallowed. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“If it’s an emergency, we—”
“I just need to talk to him. Please. Tell him it’s Luc Stanek calling.”
“Just a moment.”
He waited through half of an upbeat reggae song, almost annoyed at himself for wanting to move to the music. My God, there was something diabolical about making people calling the authorities listen to those happy, happy words.
Finally, an answer: “What can I do for you, Mr. Stanek?”
“Sheriff.” Luc breathed for a few seconds. What am I doing? What do I say? “They’ve hurt her.”
“Excuse me?”
“The…cult people. She’s here. At my house. Hurt and cold. I think she came close to hypothermia.”
“Hang on. Did they hurt her? You know this?”
“No. No, she didn’t tell me. She—” Luc cut himself off and swallowed hard, wondering, Why didn’t I get more information from her first? Why didn’t I ask her? Because she didn’t want me to call, that’s why. “I have no idea what they’ve done. What I do know is they came to my house looking for her in the middle of the night.”
“Did they threaten you, sir?”
“Yes. Although, not in so many words.”
“What does that mean?”
“The man—Isaiah Bowden, he’s their leader—mentioned it would be a shame if my vines burned down, so…not overt, but definitely a threat. They said she was mentally ill.” His voice went a bit rough at the end, and he paused. “She’s not.”
On the other end was silence. He could picture the sheriff’s face a
s he took it in, his eyes considering the situation, even over the phone, with as much focus as he’d given Luc before.
Finally, he asked, “Is she in need of medical attention?”
“Yes. I don’t know the extent, but yes, she probably needs medical attention. She won’t accept it, though.”
A grunt. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Luc paused. “They don’t believe in medicine over there. But I don’t think that’s it.”
“Would she come with us if I found a way to get to her?”
Luc thought about the way she’d stiffened when he’d talk about calling the cops. “I don’t think so.”
The sheriff sighed, and Luc wanted to join him. Luc didn’t understand what was happening either, didn’t want to deal. And yet, when he was in the same room with Abby, beside her, talking with her… This distance was good. He wasn’t himself when she was around. He liked her too much.
The phone crackled in his hand, the connection worse than usual.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanek. But we’re in the middle of a major storm here.” No shit, thought Luc, staring out at his yard, where the other truck’s tire marks were already disappearing under a thin layer of snow. “I’ve got few resources, and unless this is a life-threatening emergency… If we get out there and she refuses care… Well, you can understand my hesitation. I’m not sure I can get anyone out there for…a day or two, at the least.”
Probably more, thought Luc, knowing what the roads would be like. He could attempt his driveway—the neighbors had done it after all—but the road to town would be risky, and getting stranded with Abby in the shape she was in was too risky.
“Even if this were a major medical emergency, we can’t call in the chopper on a day like today. Nobody’s flying that thing till the snow stops,” the sheriff said. Another sigh, this one sounding exhausted. Luc pictured the man, still in his office, not making it home with the weather. “Honestly, sir, you’d have to have more of an emergency at this point. We only get Pegasus over from UVA for life-or-death situations. Like the multicar pileup I’m headed to right now, up on the interstate.”
Luc nodded, knowing the man was right.
They said their good-byes, leaving things up in the air. He’d get in touch when the storm blew over. If necessary had been the subtext.
Now what?
Luc shut the phone off, shoving it into his pocket, and stood on his porch. The wind was blowing hard, visibility limited now to just a few meters. Usually, from here, he could see his vines, standing sentinel above the valley.
Tonight he stood, waiting for that sense of ownership and rightness, like the evil king in those Lord of the Rings movies, searching, searching, and…nothing.
He turned back to face his front door, and there, his internal radar found what he was looking for—belonging.
With a jolt of unease, Luc realized it wasn’t the vines calling to him. No, tonight, the ping came from another place entirely. Like a beacon, he could feel her in there.
Abby. Today, with his vines out of sight and everything else a tangled ball of confusion, when Luc sought an anchor, he found Abby.
And that scared the hell out of him.
* * *
Abby examined the two pills before putting them into her mouth. They were orange, which struck her as odd. Not bright orange, but the color of plant pots. The color of the soil on the mountain, if you dug down a foot or two. Sweet on her tongue and down her throat, disappearing on a wash of water that felt good, so good. She drank the whole glass before standing up from the toilet and coming face-to-face with her reflection in the mirror.
Oh goodness, look at me.
Her face was a mass of bruises, her hair a bird’s nest in the braid she hadn’t redone in ages. Days, likely, although she’d lost track of time.
When she let the blanket drop and turned, the bandages on her back were stained with fluid, unhealthy. She’d need new ones.
Had he seen those? He must have. And what about her arms? Had he seen the older scars on her arms? The usual wave of pride rolled through her at the sight of those scars, only to bottom out, sharp and acidic in her belly.
Her vision shifted, and with a dizzy lurch, Abby clutched the sink.
A collage of images burst into her brain—standing there, her back exposed, while the men she’d always known as family destroyed her. Sammy, Mama. Hamish in pain. Making the tea for Hamish and leaving it beside his bed. “You can drink it,” she’d said.
The room swirled, too fast to be real, and she sank to her bottom on the bathroom floor. Up was down; good, bad. Sacrifices made as a badge of honor suddenly burned with shame. She’d scratch them off if she had the strength.
Shaky, cold. Bleary-eyed. Not far behind her was the bath. Just get to the bath and wash off the mess. Just do that, and I can sleep.
The bath, once she ran the water and got into it, was torture.
Feet first. Hot, hot, burning against her thighs, not yet reaching her back, where the real torture would begin. But she needed to unstick the bandages. Ignoring the places where the razor wire had cut into her, she sank down, the water cloudy red and smelling of blood within seconds. It wasn’t until she’d submerged fully that she noticed the soap on a ledge high above her head.
Sucking in a hard breath, she leaned on the rim, lifted herself up, grabbed the soap, and dipped back in. The burn of her thighs was sharp, the ache in her back already familiar.
It hurt to sit in this bath—real, physical pain. So much better than the pain of knowing what she’d left behind.
Where are you, Sammy?
The water was hotter than she was used to. Not that they took baths like this at the Church. Sponge baths were pretty much it. It made her feel like a sponge, soaking it up, her muscles adjusting and turning to mush. With a big sound—an ah that came from somewhere deep in her marrow—she sank in farther.
Movement behind the door, almost furtive. Isaiah. He found me.
She sat up fast and pushed to standing, arms up to keep her modest, trembling. She didn’t even notice the honeycomb of gray spots as they crept over her vision, barely recognized the wooziness until the bathwater sloshed around her ankles and she slid down with a thud.
That woke her up.
Was this Hell, this heat? Had Isaiah finally—
A knock—knuckles on wood.
“All right in there?”
Confusion continued to crowd Abby’s vision, held her tongue, belabored her breath. She’d banged her head on the side of the tub, maybe.
Yes. No. No, I am not.
The squeak of hinges. Cool air. A slow turn of her head. Wet, water, coughing.
It was all too fast. Luc’s arms came around her, and she gave him her weight. Luc, Bringer of Light.
She nodded, let the nod become a face rub, noting the cold and the smell of the outside on his clothes before sinking into him with relief.
* * *
As Luc cradled the towel-wrapped woman against him and scanned the bathroom, the word for abattoir came back with crystal clarity—the one he could never seem to remember: slaughterhouse.
Every time he came or went from his property, he was forced to drive right by the neighbors’ goddamned slaughterhouse. The place where they killed and skinned and bled their animals. Pig carcasses, sheep, and chickens. For food, he assumed, although images of sacrifice floated through his head. With Abby in his arms, he could think of nothing but sacrifice.
A dog barked in the distance. One of theirs, no doubt.
Hunting her still.
“I’m sorry.” Abby’s voice reverberated against his chest.
Luc sighed. Et merde. “It’s okay.” He sat on the toilet, soaking wet from her bathwater, wondering what the next move was.
Luc couldn’t guess where to begin. For the second time tonight he held a
shivering, near-naked Abby in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut with pain. Call the fucking helicopter. We need the helicopter.
He sucked in a breath. Blood. So much of it. He swallowed, ignoring the earthy smells billowing up from the bath, and eyed her legs. A long gash ran from a gently curving shinbone, up to where it disappeared above her knee, seeping more blood.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were so badly hurt?”
“I didn’t…I didn’t realize,” she gasped. “I was running. Couldn’t feel it till I got up. And the bath…”
“Did they do this to you?”
“No, I did.”
He shook his head to clear it. “What?”
“Running. Climbing the fence. I cut myself.”
“You didn’t crawl through?”
“They closed the hole.”
Anger rose up, hard and hot.
“How are your feet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me see them,” he pushed out through tight lips.
She hesitated.
“We’ve got to take care of this, or it could get worse.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Been…” She gave her head a quick shake, sucked in a shaky breath.
“Here.” He set her down on the edge of the bathtub and lifted her foot into his lap, slowly, gingerly. Even after her bath, traces of mud and dried blood coated her sole. Leaning back, he grabbed a washcloth and busied himself with soaking it at the sink. He did it all without rising from the toilet seat—the advantage of a small bathroom.
Sparing a glance at Abby’s face, he said, “Tell me if this hurts too much.” At her stoic nod, he set to work, gently rubbing at the layers of grime. “Let’s see the other one.” Carefully, he cleaned that foot, too, revealing cuts and areas that looked rubbed raw. Such a tiny foot, naked-looking without the toenail polish that so many women wore like armor.
“Let’s bandage those,” he said, not wanting to set her feet down, to let her go.
“I’ll do it,” she said, trying to pull away. “I’m fine.”
In His Hands Page 16
