In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  “Why?”

  “He’s the Messiah. At least, he thinks he is. And everyone there believes it. The ones who don’t…” She spread her hands, sank forward more.

  “The ones who don’t?” he asked, his voice harsh.

  “Well, you’ve seen what they…” She blew out a hard breath. “My back was the best-case scenario.”

  “Fuck,” he whispered, which made her release a small, strange laugh, even though laughing hurt.

  “Yes indeed. Fuck.”

  They were on Main Street, which was fully plowed, the few unfortunate cars parked on the sides covered in snow. A couple businesses appeared to be open, and the town’s holiday lights were still up, each old-fashioned lamppost trimmed with greenery and a bright-red bow, even though it was too late in the season.

  Out of the blue, she said, “We don’t celebrate Christmas like the rest of you.”

  “Hein?”

  “In our Church, Christmas is for praying, on your knees. There’s no celebration, no gifts. Just singing. And listening to scripture. And Isaiah’s word.”

  “What does he say?”

  “The Cataclysm is nigh. We must prepare for the Day. We are all upon this earth to suffer.”

  “He makes certain of that, doesn’t he? Does everybody… Does he brand all of his people?”

  She shook her head, let it wobble on her neck. “No. No, no. Only women get branded. And…and girls.”

  “All of them?” He looked at her and back to the road.

  A harsh laugh erupted from her lips, and Abby fought it back, because it hurt. Everything hurt. “No. You ask for the brand. I’ve gotten so many now, I’m special.” In the silence, Abby turned to look out the window, admiring the town under its blanket of snow. She’d like to live on a road like this; she’d like a house with black shutters like the ones on the antique place, which doubled as a bed-and-breakfast. Smoke puffed out of its chimney. They were racing by, racing by so fast, all of it smears of color against the window.

  “Abby?” Luc’s voice was far away, and when she turned, she couldn’t seem to catch him with her eyes. If only things would stop spinning so she could catch him with her eyes.

  * * *

  Frantic, Luc pulled over into the first plowed parking area he found, in front of the coffee shop. He checked the phone, which had charged too slowly and was only at eleven percent. Without considering his actions, he dialed the sheriff’s number. After a couple of rings, the familiar voice answered.

  “Navarro.”

  “Sheriff, it’s Luc Stanek. I…I have an emergency. I need help.”

  “What’s the emergency, sir?”

  “Abby. The woman I told you about? She’s here, I have her. She’s…she’s hurt and…” He swallowed, feeling his betrayal of her, as solid as the dog in the back seat.

  “Where are you?”

  “Main Street. In my truck. She won’t go to the hospital, but they’ve… Her skin. She’s feverish and…”

  “Her skin? What’s wrong with it?”

  “She’s been burned. Branded.”

  “Hold on.” There was a pause while Luc heard voices on the line. A woman, followed by the sheriff murmuring. Finally, he came back on. “You know where the Nook is, Mr. Stanek?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a dermatologist there, a skin clinic. You see where I mean?”

  “Ummm.” Luc squinted ahead. There. A small, official-looking sign just two doors up. CLEAR SKIN BLACKWOOD. He’d never paid attention to that sign before. Why would he? “Yes. Yes, near to the martial arts place and the café. I’m almost in front of it already.”

  “Perfect. Wait for me. We’ll meet you in front.”

  “Wait.” Luc stopped the sheriff before they hung up. “This isn’t an official call, okay? She doesn’t want the police involved.”

  The man exhaled audibly before replying. “Fine. See you in a few.”

  It felt like forever, but only ten minutes passed before he caught sight of the black SUV in the rearview—the third vehicle to come through what was generally a busy road. No lights, no sirens. Good. They parked, and a small woman got out, bundled up in cold-weather gear, while Abby had only a blanket. He should have wrapped her up better.

  Luc got out to meet the sheriff and the woman next to the passenger side of his truck, blocking the door for a moment. Stupid, he knew, but he needed something first.

  “I promised her no authorities.”

  The woman nodded and turned to the sheriff. “I’m fine, Clay. You go.”

  “Hang on.” Navarro nodded toward Abby beyond the fogged-up window. “She unconscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let me help you get her in.”

  “I’ve got her,” Luc insisted, feeling…not ownership. No, no, that was the last thing Abby needed. But responsibility, certainly. She was his to carry. He’d carried her this far, and he wasn’t about to allow someone else to do it. He opened the door and slid his arms beneath her body. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him blearily, which was good. Conscious was good.

  She murmured, “You’re my bringer of light,” and Luc fretted even more.

  “Would you mind watching the dog in the backseat?” he threw over his shoulder to the sheriff before turning to walk behind the woman.

  Nobody spoke, and when the man followed them in, dog clicking at his side, Luc couldn’t muster the energy to protest.

  22

  Clearly not an emergency clinic, Luc thought as he helped Abby through the door, into a small waiting room. He caught flashes of things: dried flowers, decorating magazines. Klimt posters on the walls.

  The person leading the way was still too bundled up to identify. What if I don’t trust her? What if Abby doesn’t?

  At this point, it probably didn’t matter. It was this or the hospital.

  They were led through a door, where the woman switched on some lights. Her boots squeaked down the hall, leading him the few meters to a door. An exam room, where Luc felt out of place, too big and in the way.

  I should go.

  The person unwrapped herself from all the winter gear—red scarf, tan coat, hat, and sunglasses. What emerged was a smallish, blond woman. When she slid into her white lab coat, she looked like someone playing doctor.

  “I’m Georgette Hadley.” Calm, even tone. Luc’s breathing was choppy in comparison. “I’m a doctor. You’re Luc.” She turned to Abby with a smile. “What’s your name?”

  Abby smiled back, and he almost screamed. What was this? A fucking tea party?

  “Abby. Abby Merkley.”

  “Oh, I know you!” the doctor said. “You used to sell me bread and those cinnamon things. I remember you, Abigail!”

  “She prefers Abby.”

  The woman’s eyes met his and lingered, searching or measuring, before patting the exam table.

  “Let’s get you up here…Abby,” the doctor invited before washing her hands at the sink.

  Luc helped Abby onto the examination table, his hands cradling her body as she curled up on her side.

  “Abby, can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

  Nothing.

  Luc glanced down to find Abby watching him. “Can you tell the doctor?”

  Abby whispered, “Hold my hand,” with a sweet, sweet smile, and Luc’s fear ramped up two hundred percent.

  “Help her,” he rasped, not wanting to look away from her. “I thought she was better, but I couldn’t get her up. She was outside the other night, in the cold. I should have brought her to you then. And the…the fièvre. The fever continues.” Shit, he was rambling, frantic.

  Nodding, the woman grabbed a thermometer, put it into Abby’s ear, and noted the temperature without reaction. She slid a cuff over Abby’s arm and took her blood pressure. All the while, she kept
one hand on Abby.

  “Clay said you’d been burned.”

  “You won’t let the police go there, will you?”

  “No. No, Abby, you’re my patient, and I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”

  Abby sighed. “My back was branded.”

  “How does it feel? Does it hurt?”

  “No. No, it doesn’t hurt.”

  When the doctor lowered her brow, Luc elaborated. “She says it’s numb.”

  Dr. Hadley leaned in, her face close to Abby’s.

  “Abby?” she whispered. “Abby. Do you remember me? From the market. I’ve missed seeing you there.”

  Abby smiled. Good. That was good.

  “Can I look at your back, Abby?”

  “I was too friendly.”

  The woman blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “At the market.”

  “Too friendly?”

  “My favorite job.” Abby’s lips curved up even further. “You were so nice. I wanted to be you.”

  “Yeah?” The doctor stayed there, bent forward, face in front of Abby’s, as if she had all the time in the world for chitchat. She reached out to brush a few stray hairs off Abby’s forehead and let her hand linger. It was an affectionate move, one that made Luc’s heartbeat slow, calmed his breath, something like relief flowing in.

  “I need to look at your back, Abby. I need to make you feel better.”

  Luc stepped back, cut out from this exchange.

  “That man outside,” Abby said. “Who is he?”

  “He’s my boyf—my fiancé.”

  “You were in a police car.”

  “He’s the sheriff.”

  “What’s he going to do? When you tell him what you saw?”

  “I won’t tell him. There’s this thing called doctor-patient privilege. I can’t talk about your condition to anyone. Not my fiancé, not Luc here, unless I have your permission.”

  “You can talk to Luc.”

  “Okay, Abby. Can I look?”

  Abby nodded. With one last stroke, the doctor stood straight, legs or back cracking in the quiet room. She walked around Abby and carefully peeled back the layers.

  Luc watched the woman’s face, waiting for some reaction, some crack in her professional veneer. And there it was. O-shaped mouth, hand raised to cover it. No sound—nothing so obvious as that—but the expression… Good thing Abby couldn’t see her.

  “You were branded multiple times.” The woman’s voice came out flat. There was anger there, but it was well hidden. “Overlapping burns.”

  Over and over again, Luc thought. He’d seen the marks, and he wished he could forget.

  No response from Abby, other than a look that begged him to answer in her place. How did he know that? How could he read her so well?

  “Yes,” he said, eyes on Abby’s.

  “These older ones are—”

  “They’ve done it before,” Luc said, saving Abby the trouble.

  “Are you allergic to any medications?”

  That pushed a dry chuckle from his lungs and dragged his attention away from Abby. “They don’t do medication. I’ve given her ibuprofen for the fever.”

  The way the doctor looked at him, full of empathy, made Luc’s knees nearly give out with relief.

  “Would you mind taking a seat out there?” She nodded toward the door, and though he ached to stay, he gave them privacy.

  * * *

  The calendar on the waiting room wall was stuck on December. He wanted to flip it to January. But there wouldn’t be a January, would there? They’d need a new calendar for that. Next year. This year.

  Luc hated December. He hated the inactivity in the vineyard, how the vines appeared dead. It was a time of death all around.

  The doctor walked in. She had one of those faces that looked eternally concerned. Caring. Was that something they taught you in med school?

  “Luc?”

  “Yes. How is she?”

  “We’ll take care of the infection, and I’ll do what I can for the scarring. You did well bringing her in. Thank you.”

  He nodded.

  “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Yes. Good.”

  The woman needed to stop giving him those looks. He didn’t need her pity.

  Inside the exam room, he stopped. Abby looked like she hurt. He walked to her, put his hand on her forehead—it was almost a habit now—and sighed hard when the skin against his felt almost normal.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, clutching at his wrist, pressing it to the side of her face. He wanted her to kiss it.

  He nodded and didn’t pull away, although the gratitude made him nauseated.

  Her eyes opened him up.

  “So…I have a choice to make.”

  “About what?”

  “What happens next.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The doctor says she can help attenuate the scarring on my back, so I don’t have to live with the Mark forever.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “I don’t think I want it gone, Luc.”

  He blinked and pulled away. “No?”

  “Is it wrong that I want to keep it? As a reminder of where I’ve been?”

  He shook his head, ignoring the itch of his ring finger.

  After a pause, Abby spoke again.

  “Dr. Hadley—she has a guest room at her house. She can take me.”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” He nodded, jaw hard. “You must go with her.”

  Was that disappointment on her face? But they didn’t have a choice, did they?

  “You don’t want me to go back with you.” She watched him. “Right?”

  “I—” Luc couldn’t meet her eyes this time, turning instead to gaze at the calendar. This one was turned to the right month, and his eye went straight to the fourth. Two weeks before Grandpère’s death. Three days after his father’s. “Going up the mountain’s not the same as coming down, Abby. If I have to leave the truck and walk, you would have to do it with me. We can’t have you tromping up the drive right in front of them.”

  Abby’s nod was stoic, her eyes too wet. “Of course. It wouldn’t be safe.” She smiled at him. That fucking smile, bestowing absolution.

  “Besides, you want to get away, right?” It hurt to say it. “You have to get away from them. Promise me you’ll leave town.”

  “When I’m done, I’ll leave town. I promise.” She glanced at the closed door and whispered, “I didn’t tell her about Sammy, what with the sheriff being her…person and all. But I have to get him out, Luc. Now.”

  “I know, Abby. And I’ll help you do that.” Or maybe even do it on my own, said a reckless voice inside his head. She wouldn’t meet his gaze for a moment, and he leaned in. “But you will wait until you’re better, right?”

  After a long few seconds, she nodded and looked him in the eye. That connection resonated down to his bones. Though she looked ready to pass out, she hardened her gaze, squinted at him, and said, “You don’t go in either.”

  “How do you—”

  “I know you, Luc Stanek.” The whispered words were harsh, but so close to loving, it almost hurt. “And that’s why you’re going to promise me, right now, that you won’t go in there and risk everything on your own.” When he didn’t answer, she went on. “If you don’t give me your word, right this minute, I’ll steal the sheriff’s car the first chance I get and—”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll wait. I will wait for you.”

  “You won’t go in there and destroy your entire life for Sammy.”

  “I promise,” he whispered, caught in her sharp gaze.

  On the heels of those words came another thought, so unexpected it nearly bowled him over: No. But I’d do it for you.


  * * *

  The door closed behind Luc without a sound, as if he’d never been there. There’d been no kiss good-bye, no hug, nothing but an uncomfortable look before he was gone, and Abby couldn’t be sure any of it had happened. Any of it. Had they really touched each other? Kissed and done…those wonderfully sinful things just the night before?

  Perhaps I imagined it. The soft tastes, that clenching need, those shimmering moments. Did I make it all up?

  When the doctor came back in, her expression asked a question that she wasn’t rude enough to voice. And Abby, who typically liked to share things, kept her mouth firmly shut. Not this. She didn’t want to share this. Not the secret or the unexpected hurt of rejection, nor the memories that might not be real.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Strange,” she said.

  “Let’s get you home and into bed.”

  For someone who hadn’t taken medication since she was a young child, Abby had been dosed up to her gills today. She was tired. Sleepy, sleepy tired. She squinted down at her clothes. Luc’s blanket kept her warm. Beneath that, his clothes had been replaced by scrubs adorned with pink elephants. With wings. Elephants with wings.

  “They don’t have wings, do they?” she asked as they emerged into the front room.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Elephants. I thought they just stomped.”

  “No wings.” The doctor opened the front door, letting in a whoosh of fresh air. Abby lifted her eyes from the animals on her clothing and caught sight of the black SUV, lights on top. She stopped.

  “What is it?”

  “I forgot about the… He’s police.” Police were bad. Isaiah would—

  “It’s okay. It’s okay, Abby. He’s with me, remember? With us. He’s my ride. He watched Luc’s dog.”

  “Luc’s dog.”

  “Right.”

  Abby calmed down a notch.

  The doctor hung back for a moment, appearing to consider. “Like I told you, he’s my fiancé. The sheriff of Blackwood County. We live together.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I won’t tell him what happened to you, Abby.”

  “But he’s your—”

  “It doesn’t matter who he is. He’s not privy to your personal, private medical information. It would be illegal for me to tell him.”