In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  “Abby?” he whispered as he drew nearer. She looked normal, as far as he could tell.

  “Abby?” He set down her plate and put a hand on her arm.

  She moaned slightly, a breathy, sleepy noise that made him remember what she’d sounded like while fucking.

  Her expression was stern, brows drawn, two harsh, red lines bisecting her pale face, and Luc began to worry in earnest. Did she look worse today? She’d come to him thin and naturally pale, but today her skin had a gray tinge that wasn’t right. His worry drove him to sit on the bed beside her and put his hand to her forehead.

  Merde, she was hot. Hot and dry and—

  She opened her eyes. They were like cognac, not whiskey as he’d originally thought. Liquid, shiny, and warm. His hand lingered, and he forgot, for a moment, his purpose in being here, especially when she smiled at him like that, those ridiculous, pink lips curving up and losing almost none of their plumpness. Luc, caught in the burnt honey of her eyes, sat like an idiot on his bed and grinned, her smile and smell bringing it all back.

  “Hi,” she whispered in a voice he’d like to sublimate and add to this year’s vintage.

  “Good morning.”

  Instead of answering, she turned her head, just enough to make it an actual caress. Luc didn’t pull back. He couldn’t. She was magnetic, those glowing eyes focused solely on him.

  “Feels good,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Your hand. So cool.”

  Shit. That wasn’t normal. “You’re burning up, Abby. I think you—”

  With a groan, she turned, curling in on herself and baring her back to his gaze. The shirt, stuck in places, was stained darkish and—

  Oh fuck. The marks that had been red the day before were white- and yellow-tinged with infection. He needed to do something. Now.

  21

  Hours passed. Or minutes. Or days, days spent going in and out of fires, tight, hot arms, bullets tearing into the compound, bullets tearing into crying children. Sammy strung up on the cross and burned.

  A voice, warm and rasping, but the words so smooth. “Abby. Abby.” Her name so soft on those lips. Soft-looking lips. Lips she needed to touch again. “You’re burning up.”

  “It’s just a dream.”

  He stilled when she touched him. So still, caught in the moment. Unmoving, hanging there above her. Her fingers, of their own accord, slid from his mouth to the side, across that scar and to the edge of his jaw, where the stubble thickened. They moved down over the angle there, to his chin. Through it all, he held himself still.

  “This dream’s better.” She smiled. “Better.”

  His breath was hot against her fingers, and she turned them, letting him heat the back as she bit her lip. Wanting to bite his.

  “I have to call someone, Abby. The sheriff. I can’t let you—”

  “No. No police, or they’ll die. The Center’s rigged. The kids will burn. We’ll all die.”

  He put his hand over hers to still it, pressed it briefly before pulling it away. Pulling her away. She blinked and moaned and let him pick her up and carry her down the stairs.

  * * *

  Luc was frantic, and he wasn’t the only one. Le Dog, sensing that things were off, paced in front of the door, whining.

  Luc picked up his phone, prepared to call the sheriff or an ambulance or the helicopter or whoever would come save her. It wouldn’t turn on. No batteries, of course, and no way to charge it.

  That was when he remembered the snowplow. When he’d bought his truck, the thing had been mounted to the front. He’d taken it off himself, so he knew what a pain in the ass it would be to mount. For the past two years, the thing had sat filthy and rusting behind the barn, because…well, because he almost never felt the need to leave his place, with or without snow. Or he hadn’t before.

  He hated leaving her here alone, but with no choice, he trudged outside.

  Sliding the stupid thing down the hill and then getting it on took forever. By the time he finished and managed to plow a path close to the cabin, the sun had slid even farther to the west, its reflection blinding on the snow-covered mountain.

  He lifted her, wrapped in the blanket from his bed. She wasn’t heavy, he knew from carrying her before. That was the heartbreaking part—she was light, way too light. So dry and hot, she felt like a husk of a woman. The thought sent a new wash of panic through him, and he squeezed her too tightly as he took her out to the truck.

  The dog insisted on coming, so Luc let him climb into the back of the cab, comforted by the companionship.

  Once in the truck, Luc had a moment of hesitation. He couldn’t exactly buckle her in, could he, half-conscious, with her back a mess? But shit, plowing the drive with this amount of snow—he had no idea how dangerous it would be. The last thing he needed was Abby flying through the windshield.

  He buckled her, pulled out the ancient cigarette lighter, and plugged his phone in.

  Slowly, steadily, he rolled down the drive, Abby sagging in the front seat beside him. It wasn’t until he approached the neighboring property that he realized he’d be in full view of them—the cult. What would they do if they saw her?

  Merde! Luc’s pulse went nuts. The nerves made his skin cold, his hands so tight on the wheel he couldn’t imagine prying them off. In front of them lay all that pristine white to plow through—nothing but obstacles, and as their fence grew closer, he pictured them plowing through that, too.

  From the back, the dog whined.

  It took a while, plowing through the drive alongside their property—that place where they hung the animal carcasses to bleed them, where he’d picked up Le Dog. Every second, he was sure he could feel them watching, could sense their ire, the crosshairs on his back. A group of men emerged from the big building in the distance, the one they seemed to use as their headquarters. Did they know he had her? Could they guess?

  Goddamn it. He had to hurry. He couldn’t hide her well enough from someone looking in the window. Behind him, Le Dog let out a quiet and menacing noise, different from anything Luc had heard from him thus far. A low, visceral growl that made the hairs stand up along Luc’s arms.

  That was when he spotted Isaiah, the snake, as he stepped out of the building.

  Luc tapped the accelerator, praying he wouldn’t speed up too fast and get them jammed in a snowbank.

  I never signed up for this, he thought for one brief, selfish moment, before shifting back into first and forcing the truck’s engine forward through the snow.

  They were halfway there. Halfway, and the copper-haired man walked steadily to where their drives ran parallel to each other, only a low fence in this section, before separating again closer to the road. Don’t let him get here in time. If he got in front of the truck, Luc would be obliged to stop. The truck moved another few feet, gravity doing all the hard work, and Luc pasted on a sick, weird smile, lifted his hand in what he hoped looked like a neighborly greeting, and rocketed past.

  Safe, safe. Go, go, go.

  Relief flooded Luc—until he saw the hairpin turn another thirty meters down, and he knew they were screwed.

  Unable to slow down enough, he took the turn too fast and wound up on the uphill side of the mountain, almost windshield-deep in a snow drift. He tried to reverse. Nothing. The tires turned in the snow like hamster wheels, going nowhere.

  “Abby?”

  No answer.

  “Wake up, Abby,” he whispered. Fuck, was she alive? “Come on, Abby, you’ve got to get in the back.”

  She moaned. Good, good.

  “Come on, Abby, ma chérie, get in back. Go. I can’t lift you back there—you have to do it on your own.”

  The men approached in the rearview mirror. Even through the sound of the truck’s engine, he could hear the crunch of their feet in the snow.

  These figur
es, so familiar now in their wool coats and gloves, a few of them holding rifles, looked like an old-fashioned army closing in on his truck. It reminded him of something from Gangs of New York. Weird. Weird to think of that at this moment, the pulse behind his eyes making his head ache. Hurry. Hurry.

  Okay. Okay, he could do this. He could pull this off.

  He got out of the truck, forcing himself to move slowly. He meandered to the back for the shovel, all the while shaking his head, exaggerating the movement so they’d see it, pasting on a rueful smile. With the strangest sense of certainty, he knew that they’d kill her if they found her.

  They’d kill him, too.

  He didn’t think about how they might have killed her already. If he didn’t get her to a doctor, and soon, she could be dead.

  That thought dug the smile deeper into his features, hardened his muscles, made him wish he’d remembered to grab his rifle. It was back there, in his cabin, standing useless against the wall.

  He forced himself to dig, tires first. The group drew closer, unnervingly silent aside from the inexorable crunch of feet in crisp snow. The back windows of his truck, fogged up now, reflected nothing but bright, white light. No movement. Maybe they wouldn’t see her if they didn’t approach the front.

  “Morning, neighbor,” the man’s voice rang out. Isaiah, the sick mastermind behind this strange clusterfuck of humanity.

  “Good morning,” Luc said through lips that were suddenly loose with nerves. Another shake of the head as they reached the truck, maintaining his self-deprecating smile. He could pull this off. He could. “I was sure that if I drove fast enough, the plow would get me out, but…” Flatten smile, shrug, indicate truck, pretend a half-dead woman isn’t inside. A woman they’d done this to. A sweet, passionate, intelligent woman they’d damaged.

  No anger. It wouldn’t help. He pushed every single splinter of rage into a smile, made his shoulders relax, took some easy swings at the snow. I’m just a dumb city boy. Foreigner, pronounced furner, like they said it around here.

  “Took it real fast,” Isaiah said as two of his guys peeled off, not even pretending.

  “Never really driven in the snow before,” he lied, shoveling faster. Elmer fucking Fudd.

  “Well, first thing you wanna do is let the truck roll, just roll it.” Oh, this guy was all helpful advice, all warm fuzzies, wasn’t he?

  Luc managed to dig one wheel out, and half the plow, too, with enough room to roll forward. As long as nobody blocked his progress. The uphill side of the truck was flattened against the bank, which was to his advantage, Luc realized, as the two guys who’d separated from the group leaned nonchalantly on the driver’s side and peered in.

  What could they see?

  “Yes, I figured that. Too fast to stop. I hit the brakes and…” Luc indicated the truck again, that silly smile frozen in place and his arms working so hard he couldn’t feel them. If he sped up, he’d be nothing but a cartoon blur.

  “Where you headed in such a hurry on a day like this, son?”

  Son? Son? The man couldn’t possibly be more than a decade older than Luc. Putain, his shtick was over the top.

  “Ran out of…” Milk, he almost said before replacing it with “Beer.” They’d have milk, wouldn’t they? They’d offer him milk, and he wouldn’t have a choice but to accept it.

  And why the hell hadn’t the two men looking in the window sounded the alarm?

  “You got a dog in there?” one of them asked.

  Forced chuckle. “Yes. Stray. Some hunter must have lost him in the woods. He just showed up at my door, right before the snow, in bad shape. Took him to the vet in town. Nobody claimed him, and I’m out a thousand bucks.”

  Beside him, their leader lifted something he’d been holding loose at his side. A gun! screamed Luc’s brain, and he barely kept himself from flinching. Slowly, the man sank the blade of a shovel into the snow, threw it off to the side, sank it in again. Like a cat playing with its prey, he helped Luc dig out the tires. One of those orange cats with yellow eyes. Taunting. Helping before hurting. Sounded like a good motto for these guys. He wondered, in a brief moment of hilarity, if that was the message behind Abby’s brands. Help first, hurt later.

  “You’re a real Dr. Dolittle, huh? Have to remember that if we have any creatures show up, needing looking after. If they’re lame or require too much care, we usually just shoot ’em, put ’em out of their misery. We’ll bring ’em to you now.” Oh, God, they were toying with him, weren’t they?

  Why hadn’t they said something about the woman in his truck yet? What were they waiting for?

  With a small shake of the head, one of the men stepped away from the window. Isaiah’s strange eyes followed his progress before flicking back to Luc.

  “Looks like you got yourself dug out, neighbor,” Isaiah said with a hard thwack of one gloved hand to the truck’s hood.

  “Thank you,” Luc breathed, wondering when they planned to strike. Wondering, waiting, his back a target as he climbed into the cab and watched the men move reluctantly away. A final lift of the hand and slowly, as calmly as he could manage, Luc disengaged the emergency brake, shifted into first, and let the truck rock a couple times before it crawled out from the drift. He let it roll with his foot on the clutch, no accelerator, and kept on going down the hill.

  It wasn’t until he’d made it to the road that he let himself turn and take in the front seat. Empty.

  “Please tell me you’re back there,” he said, because she had to be. She couldn’t have gotten out with the passenger door wedged into the snow.

  “Yes.” Looked like she’d flattened out on the seat under that blanket with the dog flopped on top of her.

  Luc let out such an overwhelming breath of relief, he thought his body would deflate to nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Abby,” he said, turning onto the main road. “But I’m taking you to a doctor.”

  * * *

  After giving Le Dog a big scratch and a kiss, Abby climbed slowly out of the backseat, into the front. She ached. Every bit of her ached, even the rush of relief running through her felt like an ache.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Hospital.”

  “I won’t do it, Luc. Hospitals are official. Official means police. Police means…”

  “What does it mean, Abby?” he asked, his voice gentle.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” He sounded angry, but could she blame him? Lord, none of this had turned out the way she’d have wished. This wasn’t how her new life was supposed to go.

  Abby bent forward to stop the pressure against her back and let her face fall into her hands. She wanted to weep, wanted to scream and curse.

  “Tell me a curse word,” she said. “The worst one you can think of.”

  “Enculé,” he said, his voice vicious but the sound so lovely on his lips.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s very dirty.”

  “Good. Tell me.”

  “Fucked in the ass,” he said, shocking her. She blinked at the ass part, not ready to even think of the possibility, and concentrated instead on that word again—the F one. That was the one she wanted.

  “Fuck,” Abby spat. Then again, “Fuck,” and again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, until it didn’t sound like a word anymore. It lost its meaning, turned into nothing but curt, harsh sounds in her mouth, on her tongue.

  Beside her, Luc said nothing.

  “It also means…what we did last night, right?” Some things you picked up, no matter how protected you were.

  “Yes. Not in a nice way, though.”

  “Is it mean?”

  “It can be. Insulting or…dirty.”

  “Dirty?” she slurred. Why was
it so hard to talk?

  “Like…” He breathed out hard, looking reticent, like this was the last discussion he wanted to have with her. “Like if you’re talking dirty to someone. Not dirty, but…sexy. If you’re talking to someone about what you would like to do to them.” Was he blushing? He was. He was getting red. “If you were trying to seduce someone, you might say fuck.”

  “Oh. You said it.” She blushed at the memories. “Last night.”

  Through narrowed, bleary eyes, Abby watched his lips puff out into that pout he had when he said French words, almost smiling as he expelled a breath. He looked at her, pupils pinpricks, irises bluer than blue, reflecting the bright wonderland of snow.

  “Do you regret it, Luc?”

  “Regret what?”

  “What we did last night. Me.”

  He slowed the truck to barely a crawl and took his eyes off the road again to meet hers. “Never.” There wasn’t a hint of doubt in those two syllables. “Never,” he said again, almost a whisper, and a wave of happiness swelled up inside of Abby, as bright as the snowy landscape around them. His hand left the steering wheel in search of hers. For several long minutes, he held her tight like that, until they got to the main road into Blackwood, and he had to pull away to downshift.

  And now, as they entered civilization, everything was different. The distance between them seemed to stretch, their intimacy left behind as surely as the threat of the Church.

  “No hospitals, right? You promised.”

  “No hospitals, Abby.”

  After another few seconds, she went on. “I need to get Sammy out. Soon. I can’t leave him there.”

  “I know.”

  “And Isaiah won’t go down without a fight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She’d skipped too far ahead, she could tell, straight from fuck to furor. “If the police come, he’ll be…dangerous. He believes it’s his divine right to live on that mountain, to be there and protect what’s his.”

  “I don’t—”

  “They’re all waiting for the Apocalypse, Luc. They’re expecting the End of Days. And Isaiah would not be against bringing it about himself, if need be.”