by Nancy Gideon
Those gaping jaws clamped onto Giles’s right shoulder like one of the traps decorating the walls inside, shredding muscle and tendon, crunching bone. He went to his knees in a fog of agony, struggling, but unable to break loose.
The disfigured male, now in human form, tore his head back and spat out a mouthful of blood and tissue as he held Giles upright by the fist clenched in his hair. He glared up at Brigit, snarling, “Stupid bitch. Did you think we wouldn’t be monitoring calls? If you’re planning on those pussy Guedrys helping you, think again.” He let Giles drop to the ground and was beginning to stand when Brigit’s next shot drilled him right through the forehead.
“I’m not stupid,” Brigit growled back.
Giles staggered to his feet. He transferred the ax to his left hand, roaring with fury and effort as he made the final swing that severed the creature’s head from body. He reeled as Brigit filled his arms, knees going weak, letting her support him as he struggled to get on top of the swelling sickness and pain. Finally, what he grasped hold of to pull himself from that sucking darkness were the last words spoken by the creature at his feet.
“Who did you call?” He managed to lock his good hand about Brigit’s jaw to lever her away as he again shouted, “Who did you call?”
Her huge eyes widened with a stark understanding as she stammered, “Kendra.”
“You called Kendra,” he repeated blankly. Then he shook his head. “How? When?”
“Last night. Boyd let me borrow his phone.”
“Last night.” He stared at her, dizziness and disbelief making him slow to comprehend. “Boyd’s phone. You used Boyd’s phone.” He took a quick anguished breath, his stark features crumpling. Shoving her away, he stumbled to the cabin.
Brigit stood frozen for a long second, stunned by the horror she’d seen in his face. Then she ran after him, catching him about the middle as he collapsed against the door.
“Giles, stop. What is it? Stop. Let me help you.”
He turned on her, snarling almost as ferociously as the recently deceased. “Help me? You’ve done enough. Get away from me!”
He pushed by her to stagger inside. Dragging a rifle and box of ammunition from under the bed they’d slept on together, he cradled the weapon against his ribs with his useless arm as he racked in the shells. The sound of his breathing was raw and terrible. Brigit seized his sound hand to still the fierce movements. “Giles, what is it?”
He stared at her, his tortured expression awash with sweat, tears, and blood. “Don’t you understand? You’ve led them right to my family. They’re going to be killed.” He pushed her away, tone gritty as he added, “If they haven’t been already.”
He grabbed up his coat and went out the front, leaving the door wide open behind him. Rushing to throw himself between those he loved and those he couldn’t stop.
And she was running after him.
Who did that make the bigger fool? she wondered, pulling on her skinny jeans and tennis shoes, tying back her hair as she raced out the door, pistol tucked into her waistband.
He was struggling to shove the boat from marshy ground into the water when she reached him. She gave him a push and a brusque “Get in. I’ll do that,” as she dug her feet into the muck and pushed with all her might to get the pirogue floating free. She barely had time to jump aboard before he was steering out into the weed-choked water, forcing as much speed as possible from the tiny motor.
His family! She’d never considered. Never thought. If they could find her location through the cell phone, how hard would it be to track down the address of its owner? Leading the Terriots right to the Point.
They were nothing if not thorough.
Staring at Giles’s broad back, watching the rivulets of blood rolling down it, she wasn’t sure what to pray for: that they’d be too late or just in time . . . to die with them.
The pirogue veered sharply to the right. The little motor sputtered and went dead, its blades entangled. Giles listed to the left, then dropped over backward like a tipped glass, falling right into her lap.
Acting fast, Brigit sank to her knees in time to stop his fall and support him. His head fell back against her shoulder, his eyes flickering and then rolling up white as she struggled to hold on to him. She turned her full attention for the first time to his injury. All she could see was red. Everywhere.
The wounds were terrible, savage punctures both front and back, joined by massive tears too close to his throat. So much blood! She pressed her palm over the deepest gouge, feeling it immediately beginning to pound through her fingers.
“Giles? Giles!”
His head lolled loosely when she shook him. His eyes stayed closed. A horrible gray cast had replaced his usual robust tan.
He was going to die. The realization paralyzed her. He was going to bleed out right here in her lap. For all his strength and vitality, he was human. Unable to regenerate. Unable to heal.
“Giles, no,” she heard herself weeping. “Don’t you dare leave your blood on my conscience, too.”
She groped for the pocketknife he carried, using the sharp blade to cut a strip from the bottom of her sweatshirt. Even folded into a thick pad, it was quickly soaked through. She couldn’t stop the bleeding. There was no time to get him help, even if she knew which way to go.
She was going to lose him. And be to blame. She didn’t know which tore through her with the sharpest teeth.
“Damn you, Giles. Frail human. Damn you for making me care if you live or die. If you were one of us—”
She broke off. If he were one of them, she could heal him.
She’d discovered her gift when she was a child. She was supposed to be watching Kendra but had gotten immersed in a book until her cousin’s frantic cries reached her. The little girl had fallen, slicing open her chin on the steps. A deep cut that Brigit feared would be disfiguring. She’d covered the wound with her hand and . . . willed it away.
When her mother found out what she’d done, she’d made her daughter promise never to let anyone know of this special thing she could do. It would make her different. Mark her as unique. Place her in danger. But when those she loved were hurt or in pain, she couldn’t keep her vow. Even at the risk of discovery. Even at the cost to herself.
Brigit stroked her hand along Giles’s rough cheek. His skin was already fearfully cold.
She’d never reached out to a human before, didn’t know if she could or if it would help, but Giles had little to lose at this point. She, on the other hand, could lose plenty. What if they were found while she was in a weakened state? How could she defend herself? Defend him?
She crouched there in the bottom of the boat for another long minute, cradling his slack figure in her arms while her breathing chugged noisily, while she blinked her eyes clear.
At last she brushed her lips across his damp brow and let her eyes close, too. Breathing slow and deep, she relaxed her thoughts to invite in a soothing emptiness before concentrating, focusing on the vital fluid leaking from his body. Slow. Slow. Careful to channel her energies to the damage done and not to his heart.
Her hands began to warm where she’d placed them on either side of his shoulder. The blood around them began to thicken. Ignoring the stab of pain through her temples that streaked down to burn in her own shoulder, she reached farther, searching through paths of darkness and alarming cold for his life’s energy field. She found it dim and weak as she surrounded it with her own, feeding it with her strength. She could see a clear picture of the terrible injuries to his body, far too grave for a simple surgeon’s repair. Far too extensive perhaps for her skills. Just stop the bleeding so he’ll live, she cautioned herself. No need to risk more. She could stop without finishing, without mending the muscles and tendons and splintered bones to give him a full range of motion. He’d be alive . . . but not whole.
She could save him, and herself, from what lay ahead. Why risk them both for these strangers who cared nothing for him? Why place herself in needless jeop
ardy when they were already too late?
She wouldn’t think of them, of his sisters, of his gregarious cousin, of his parents. And she’d still have him.
As Brigit started to withdraw her healing energies, the pulse of his heartbeats became the rhythmic sound of him pumping the basketball with that smug grin on his face. She could see him swinging the ax like some kind of Norse god as he battled her enemy, feel him lifting her over and over as she moaned his name until ecstasy claimed her, all with a strong, confident male grace. Could see the unrestrained joy in his face as he hugged his little sister tight. Dammit. She couldn’t let him lose those things, or herself the pleasure of watching him.
So she went back, went deeper, stretching her abilities to their limit, until she was dizzy and nauseated and had to pull away before she was no use to either of them. Then Brigit simply held him, willing the warmth and strength back into his body.
“Don’t you leave me, Giles,” she whispered. “Don’t you leave me out here all alone.”
She waited to find out if what she could do for him had been enough.
Please . . . let it be enough.
Slowly, Giles came around with a low groan, head lifting, blinking until his focus cleared. “What happened? Why are we stopped?”
Weak with relief, she told him, “You passed out and put us in the weeds.”
He straightened, clutching at her unapologetically for balance. It was so hard to release him, to let him leave her arms. Then he worked his shoulder, the movements slow, still giving him pain. She had no way of knowing if her repairs to his frail physiology would hold.
His focus sharpened, concern immediately leaping beyond himself. “How much time?”
“Just a few minutes. I managed to get the bleeding stopped.”
He pushed away determinedly. “Minutes they don’t have.” He reached out to tilt the little motor so the blades surfaced, heavily draped with water plants. Even that small gesture broke a sweat on his brow. He started to lean forward, but Brigit placed a staying hand to his chest.
“I’ll get that.”
It took some doing to pull the clog of weeds free, time she needed to recover her own flagging strength. Without looking at him, she asked, “What’s the plan? You have one, don’t you?”
“We’ll stop at Sammy’s to get my boat. We’ll make better time that way.”
“And once we get there?”
“I’ll rip apart every one of the bastards I find.”
She glanced back, chilled by his flat tone and more so by the cold certainty in his eyes. Eyes like ice. “And if they’re already gone?”
“I’ll follow them into hell and make sure they stay there.”
Brigit shivered. “Sounds like a plan.” She tipped the blades back into the water. “Try it now.”
The engine sputtered, then began to purr quietly.
“Here.” Brigit lifted his jacket. “Let’s get this on you. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You can’t afford to go into shock out here. It’ll keep you warm.”
He didn’t argue, letting her ease it up his right arm—his breath hissing through clenched teeth—then helping him with his left. She was leaning in close so their faces were inches apart as she pulled up the zipper. She lifted her gaze to his, desperate to mend the gaping breech between them.
“Giles,” she began softly.
His tone was crisp, his stare unblinking. “Sit down. We’re wasting time.”
Without a word, she resumed her seat, heart heavy and pounding with dread and regret.
They nudged the pirogue up against Sammy’s dock without incident. Giles’s powerboat was moored on one side, covered by a concealing tarp. No one came down to meet them.
“You start with the tarp. I’ll go up for the keys,” Brigit suggested. “If no one’s there, where would he keep them?”
“Sugar jar on the kitchen counter.” He took the hand she offered with his left and let her hoist him up onto the dock. When she was sure he wouldn’t fold, she gradually released him. His curt tone prodded her. “Don’t dawdle.”
She nodded and began the sprint up to the rustic buildings. Halfway there, already strangely light-headed and winded from the exertion, she eased the pistol from the band of her jeans.
Something wasn’t right. In his urgency, Giles hadn’t noticed the strange silence that all but screamed a warning. Whatever had happened here had already been done, but she still approached cautiously.
The front door was open, the house quiet as she moved through the cluttered rooms and bloodied hall toward the kitchen.
Standing in the archway, she pictured how the scene had unfolded as her stomach rolled and clenched.
Melva surprised as she stood at the open refrigerator, her throat cut, but not before her cry of warning brought Sammy running.
He must have met the first attacker in the hall, then stumbled and dragged himself the rest of the way. The gristly little man hadn’t gone without a fight. His body was draped over one of the home invaders just inside the back door, where they’d struggled ferociously before the other must have come up from behind to end it with one of the blades from Melva’s knife block. The hilt protruded from Sammy’s back.
Breathing in quick, short puffs, Brigit picked her way across the wet floor to find the keys in the cheerful ceramic sugar canister with its red apple motif. She took a moment longer to relieve the dead Shifter of his handgun and to grab a couple of room-temperature bottles of water from the back stoop. Nothing could make her reach into that refrigerator, where the shelves dripped with arterial spray.
She went to the living room to yank down the drapes, using the heavy folds to cover the bodies with what little time for reverence she could spare. A quick stop in the bathroom, then she ran back to where Giles was working loose the last line. He was drenched with sweat, his features gray with pain, but he seemed to be moving better.
“Here.” She passed him the gun she’d taken off the dead man. “Sammy thought you might need this.”
He took it without question, letting Brigit tear back the tarp. Tossing it to the dock, she told him brusquely, “Get in. I’ll drive.” One of the few pleasures she’d had under the Terriots’ thumb was piloting a boat on the placid surface of Lake Tahoe. She knew her way around open water.
He didn’t protest that, either. Worriedly, she touched his brow, quickly removing her hand before he could object. He was burning up. She helped him into the passenger seat and gave him one of the waters after twisting off the top, then filled his other palm with the half-dozen pain relievers she’d gotten out of the medicine cabinet. He swallowed them down while she started the powerful engine.
“Had they seen anyone?” he asked as she urged the boat into the channel.
“We didn’t have a chance to do much talking.”
She opened the throttle so the engine’s roar would drown out any further conversation. The whip of the wind carried away her tears.
The moment the Point jutted into view, all signs of infirmity or worry fell away from Giles. He was all sharp, bared steel and chillingly efficient tensile strength.
“How do you want to approach?” Brigit asked, cutting the engine to a quiet putter.
“No way to be discreet, so we might as well go in bold. Pull up to the dock.” His voice was deceptively soft and even, as if he weren’t planning that one-way express trip to hell. His calm increased the level of threat, the smooth, tempting surface over quicksand.
The boat bumped against the dock. When she began to stand, Giles gripped Brigit’s arm. “Stay here.”
Surprise became a cool objection. “If anyone goes up, it’ll be me. I’m the one they want.”
But they weren’t going to settle for just her. Brigit knew that already, and without saying as much, Giles did, too.
It took every ounce of his will for Giles to pull himself from the boat to the dock. His knees trembled. His gut churned. But his thoughts were crystal-clear. He didn’t let anything distract him from his ob
jective. Not the odd tingling pain trickling down his arm to numb his fingers. Not the fever throbbing in his head or the way his vision kept losing focus. Not the terror chewing its way through his insides that he’d be too late to save them. Or the whispering fear that he might have to choose between his loved ones and the woman at his side. He shut down every emotion, every reaction, and became a juggernaut of pure adrenaline-fueled bad news, the way Jimmy Legere had taught him.
All he had to do was get from the dock to the house without keeling over, then heaven help anyone who got in his way.
Brigit tucked in tight behind him. At first he thought she was taking shelter, but when her arm curled firmly about his waist, he realized that she was helping support him.
That, too, was something he’d push aside to consider later.
“Let’s go say hello,” he said softly.
The parking lot and the yard were empty. Nothing was out of place. Except Boyd’s car sitting by the office with the driver’s door open, as if someone had exited in a hurry. The building was dark and seemingly empty.
As they approached the house, Giles felt Brigit begin to shiver beneath the drape of his arm and figured she must be scared out of her mind that he meant to trade her for his family’s safety. He was again surprised by her low aside.
“They’ve been here. At least one’s still inside. Probably more.”
In his mother’s house. In his home. With his family. Giles struggled against the red-hot rage goading him to take reckless action as he continued up the walk at an unhurried pace.
“Close enough” came a shout from the house. “Put the rifle down and show me your hands. Drop the pistol, too.”
Giles let both pieces fall and spread his hands wide.
“Come on in and join the party.”
Going-away party, if he had his way.
As they climbed the steps, Giles grabbed ahold of Brigit’s waist for balance. She rubbed up against him, murmuring, “You’d better check to see if I remembered my underwear. I’d hate to make a scene.”
He was puzzled at first, then let his palm slide down to the small of her back.
