by Palmer, Dee
I recognise the old Chief Inspector, his partner, and the landlord, all laughing and seemingly enjoying their trip down memory lane. My mother stiffens when she see me approach. Her smile freezes, her glossy, bright red lips sticking on her perfect white teeth. It takes a moment to regain her composure. Her hands absently drift to her scarf-covered neck, and I wonder if I really left a mark the last time we met. It’s possible; she made me fucking mad enough, and frankly, it’s the least she deserves, considering the shit-storm she created.
“Atticus,” She gushes. “I didn’t know you would be joining us.”
“I’m not. Why are you here?” I snap with open hostility.
“I was waiting to hear you had left the Hall before I followed you back to town. Still, now you are here, why don’t you join me for a celebratory drink and we can head off together.” She eases herself along the cushioned bench and pats at the space she’s just created.
“It’s a little premature for a celebration, don’t you think?” I ignore the offer to take a seat. My derisive response has little effect.
“Not at all.” She continues to lightly pat the seat beside her, and giggling, she turns to wink at the Chief Inspector. She actually winks. What the hell?
“A moment alone with my mother, gentlemen.” I demand and watch as they all stiffen and reluctantly edge away from their idol. It’s pathetic. My mother would no more give them the time of day than she would a tramp on the street if she wasn’t getting something in return. That in itself makes my blood boil.
“I said I would handle this.” I grit out through my increasingly tight jaw once the room is cleared.
“I know, darling, only I had a genius idea and just went with it.” She claps her fingertips together lightly with giddy excitement.
“Fucking hell.” I run my hand through my hair, tension spiking in my blood, and an unnerving twist in my guts makes me snap. “Your last genius idea is why we’re in this fucking mess, Mother. What have you done?”
“The Hall is heavily insured and The Chief Inspector knows just the right person to—”
“Stop. Don’t say another fucking word. You’re not burning Tartarus to the ground for the insurance.” I can’t fucking believe this woman.
“Not just Tartarus.” She winks at me and I feel the blood drain from my face. I can’t speak but that doesn’t stop her. “You did leave Tia there didn’t you? Two birds, one stone…or one very old, very leaky heating system should I say.” Her smile could freeze ice, and I feel its chill in my bones.
“What have you done? How did you know I left Tia there? It was five fucking minutes ago.” The volume rises in direct proportion to a rocketing rage I can’t control.
“Keep your voice down. I have my sources,” she whispers, her hand cupping the side of her mouth like we are sharing some juicy secret. She’s fucking insane.
“Angus, the groundskeeper, he must have seen me leave.” I wrack my brains because I didn’t see a soul.
“Not the groundskeeper; he’s on holiday, but I do have my spies.” She glances at her watch and grins like the fucking Cheshire cat on Christmas morning, clapping her hands together with glee. “It’s done,” she squeals
“What? What’s done?” I ask but the faint sound of sirens screeching outside distracts me. There’s a thunderous boom in the distance. I rush to the window. In the sky above the tree-line, there’s a dark cloud mushrooming. I think I feel the ground shake, but looking down, I can see it’s my legs trembling. I grab the windowsill to stop myself from collapsing. My fingertips hang on to the glossy black wood with a vice-like grip. It’s futile; I buckle and fall to my knees. My head drops to my empty hands, and I mouth one more rhetorical question.
“What have we done?”
My hands are shaking; sweat drips from my brow, and my fingers slip against the silver handle of the dagger. I try to keep the pressure on, but the blood is gushing now. I manage to work my t-shirt over my head and scrunch it into a ball, pressing against the deep, life-draining wound Atticus inflicted. I can’t believe he did that.
“Logan, I’m so sorry.” With my free hand, I pull the gag loose and try to unknot his restraints, but it’s impossible with the one free, yet useless hand that won’t stop trembling. The knots are too damn tight. I need a knife. I’m well aware of the irony. I have a perfectly good knife in my hand, but if I remove it, Logan will die much quicker than he is already.
“Please don’t die, please don’t die.” My head drops and tears drench my cheeks as I whisper my plea to a God I struggled to believe in. Now’s your chance.
“You gave him the money. You shouldn’t have given him shit.” Logan growls, raising his head and my hopes. I thought he was unconscious, with his massive frame slumped limp in the chair, his chest barely moving with shallow breaths, and the only colour left clinging to his skin is the blood, slick, thick and glossy, pouring from what I thought was his lifeless body. I could squeal with joy and would if he didn’t look so deathly pale. I mouth a silent thank you.
“I couldn’t let him hurt you.” My words falter at my ridiculous reasoning given the situation we’re in.
“Thank you.” He cracks a weirdly wide smile that makes my heart ache. “But you shouldn’t have given him the money. He was always going to kill me.”
“No…no, I don’t think that’s true. He—” I shake my head when Logan strains to speak. Tears cloud my vision. My heart is breaking. I can’t believe Atticus meant to kill Logan. I saw the way he played the room, staged the props. This was an elaborate game to him, but I don’t believe his objective was murder.
His goal was to retrieve his money, take the diamonds, and get out.
If he wanted Logan dead why not slit his throat? I’m not being naïve. I know he’s capable of murder, I just don’t believe that was his intent, not today at least.
“He loves you and you love me. Tia, trust me, the bastard wants me dead.” He groans, his face contorted with unbearable pain. I’m not going to argue that Atticus gave me his phone so I could get help. Frankly, that’s going to be irrelevant if they don’t get here soon.
“Don’t talk, save your strength. Please just hang on, Logan. The ambulance is coming.” I sob, my nose streaming a sticky mess, which coats my upper lip, and tears are falling in rivers down my cheeks. I try and dry the excess on my shoulder, which would only work if I could stop fucking crying for a single second. I suck in a calming breath. This isn’t helping. He doesn’t need me falling apart, the pathetic wreck I am, wailing helplessly.
He needs me strong, to keep him awake, focused, and alive. I got him into this mess, and I will not let him die.
“Hey, no sleeping Logan! Stay with me, okay?” His chin has dropped to his chest. I cup it in my free hand and lift his head, giving him a light, and somewhat sharp shake in lieu of a slap.
“I didn’t give him the money.” I can’t fight the smile tipping the worry from my face. “I learnt from the best remember?” He blinks, his dark brown eyes, glossy with pain, sparkle with recognition as I elaborate.
“That transaction was a ghost transfer. I actually sent it directly to a separate pension account that no one can touch, except the pension fund panel. I mean, they can access it, but it’s their money.” I roll my eyes at my fumbling attempt to explain something Logan will understand way better than I ever could. The effort it takes for him to speak is agonising, and I raise my hand to try and stop him when a deep grumble rumbles from his chest.
“Smart.” He sucks in sharp breath, making me wince. The spread of warmth trickles through my veins when his big hand covers mine in a tender squeeze and pride flashes in his eyes.
“Like I said…the best.”
“Do you mean me or my sister?” he chokes out, and I deflate with devastation at the broken expression before me, tearing me apart.
“Logan I—” He groans, and there’s a fresh surge of blood pouring from the wound. “Oh god, please, please don’t die. Please don’t die! I love you, Logan. I l
ove you so much.” I heave stuttered sobs back into my lungs, in an effort to hold the impending flood at bay. This hurts so fucking much I can’t bear it.
“Did you tell my sister that?” His heavy head flops onto his shoulder; my hand cups his chin, but it’s too much weight to carry. His breathing is so fucking soft I can barely hear his whispered words.
“What? Um, I don’t know,” My mind races, I can’t think. All I can see is the man I love slipping through my fucking fingers. His steely gaze fixes on me, waiting for my answer. “Yes, probably…I don’t know, Logan.” I don’t care about any of that. I drop my head back yelling to the heavens. “Fucking hell, where’s the fucking ambulance?” He closes his eyes for the longest time; it actually scares the shit out of me when he finally opens them.
“That’s a problem.” The chill running the length of my spine matches the icy coldness in his eyes, only I don’t have time to dwell on what that might mean. An almighty ear piercing explosion shakes the very foundation beneath us, plaster cracks and crashes from above, a strong smell of gasoline and gas fills my nostrils. Glass in every pane of the eight massive windows shatters instantaneously and flies across the room as a ball of fire bursts through the double doors, blowing them off their hinges. The oak panels over the fireplace catch first, the books, shelves and rugs are incinerated in a flash of unstoppable flames, and the curtains light like a touch paper. Flames lick the length of the material with a river of fire, rippling up the heavy fabric and scorching the walls. There’s so much wood in here, it’s like a tinderbox. Flames skip and dance from surface to surface, racing to destroy everything its path, racing to devour us.
“Logan, Logan, can you hear me? Logan, speak to me! Are you still with me?” I cough, choking back in the smoke filling the room. His eyes are closed, and I can’t see if he’s breathing. The panic in my voice is juxtaposed to the humour in Logan’s response.
“I’ve had better days.” He splutters, wincing at the pain.
“Oh god, thank god!” I exhale with a relief-filled nervous laugh, trying to clear my throat without sucking in too much of the toxic air surrounding us.
“You need to get out.” He’s emphatic, and I would laugh again, but I don’t have time to play around.
“No!” My eyes burn with the fumes, and my throat claws unbearably with the need to cough and my lungs feel as if they are shredded raw from just trying to breathe.
“Tia, this whole place is going to burn to the ground.” He scowls and grips my hand too tight, as if the sudden shooting pain in my fingers will make me see sense. I feel like my skin is bubbling with the intense heat surrounding us, so a little hand cramp isn’t going to cut it.
“Then I’ll burn with it. I’m not leaving you.” I speak calmly. This is a non-negotiable matter of fact.
“Tia, be realistic. I’m bleeding out. I won’t even make it to the window, but you will.” He chokes and coughs and pleads. “Please, if you love me at all, you’ll do as I say.” It’s a low blow, and my chest cleaves in agony.
“And if you loved me at all, you wouldn’t ask,” I retaliate.
“I don’t love you. Now will you leave?” He forces his retort through angry, tight lips and a pulsing clenched jaw.
“I don’t believe you.” I search his eyes for the truth, only the smoke and rapidly encroaching fire make it hard to see past the fear. His words hit me as hard as the knife in his side, and I buckle with the possibility of what he’s saying and the probability of it actually being true.
Is he just trying to get me to leave or do people actually have a rare moment of clarity when faced with imminent death?
I know what I feel is true, regardless of this being the last few minutes of my life. I love him; it’s beautifully simple for me. Is it the same for him? Is he telling the truth? Does he really not love me? No, I refuse to believe that, I know he loves me. I felt it long before a life and death situation forced him to take a corner. I come out fighting. “Why are you here if you don’t love me?”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” He cuts me down, and even though his eyelids are heavy and droop with weakness, when he does manage to fix his eyes on mine, I can’t be sure what I’m seeing. I flounder.
“Oh!” The heat is unbearable. Black smoke thickens, cloaking every bit of space in the room. The blown out windows suck the smoke from the building as fast as the fire is fuelled with fresh kindling from the abundant furniture. It’s prevented Logan and me from suffocating but it’s also providing fresh air to accelerate the raging fire. The noise from the destruction is deafening. Even so, in the distance, I can just make out the faint cry of sirens. I mutter a silent prayer and whisper to Logan to hold on, just a few minutes more.
I don’t know if he can hear me.
I don’t know if we even have a few minutes.
A large piece of ceiling collapses, and weighty chunks hit my shoulder, knocking me to the floor. The dagger slips from my hand and falls from the wound. Black smoke chokes the air in my lungs and stings my eyes, I’m disorientated and stumble to my knees, coughing and spluttering. I crawl, blindly feeling my way back to Logan. I touch his leg and quickly work my way up his body and back to the wound, I instantly press the spurting blood with my bare hands but it’s too late. His body is slumped unconscious and I can feel his life slipping through my sticky, blood-soaked fingers.
My skin burns, it feels as if it’s being flayed off my bones. The heat is incredible; my throat is parched and raw as I suck in shallow breaths of burning air and toxic smoke, just to keep breathing.
“Logan! Logan don’t you dare fucking leave me!” I scream and move my body over more to protect him against the inferno blazing around us. My bare arms blister and the tiny hairs singe in the intensity of the heat. I start to choke as the smoke gets unbearably thick and the cloud blocks out the daylight, plummeting us both into scorching oblivion that feels a lot like hell.
She’s so fucking stubborn. I’ve a good mind to spank her arse when she wakes up.
If she wakes up.
It’s been five days since the explosion. Since we were both dragged out of the blazing inferno, unconscious and, in my case, barely alive. The extent of the damage to the building was catastrophic. It was a miracle they found us in time amidst the devastation. The initial blast took out half of the main house, the Great Hall and the west wing, including the library. I was told by the investigating officers the fire tore through the remaining building, incinerating everything, and the water damage from the fire hoses finished the job.
Tartarus Hall has been razed to the ground. I was told the original parts of the castle the Hall was built upon and extended from, are the only parts that survived.
A faulty gas pipe and some irresponsibly stored gasoline containers was the initial verdict. No foul play, just an unfortunate accident, which sounds comical when I roll the notion around in my head. No one is saying anything much more than we both had a lucky escape.
Luck escape, my arse.
As much as I want answers, I also don’t. I don’t care about the fucking twisted psycho that stabbed me, his poisonous family, and all the fucking trouble they have caused. The only thing I want right now is for Tia to open her fucking eyes.
Despite the severe blood loss, the stab wound I sustained didn’t cause any permanent damage. It seems Atticus missed the main organs, strategically cutting to create a lot of mess but nothing more and not as bad as it could’ve been if he’d hit a main artery.
Somehow I still can’t quite bring myself to warm to the guy.
I was stitched up, given a shit tonne of blood and told to rest up for a few days.
I think they thought that meant lying in my own hospital bed, not sweet talking the nurses and sliding in next to Tia in hers. I assured them I wouldn’t get in the way, and I told them hearing my voice whispering to her constantly would wake her up, if only to tell me to shut the hell up. It had to be worth a try. Physically, she is fine. Some red raw patches of skin from the h
eat and some smoke damage to her throat, but other than that, she is fighting fit. She’s just got to…
“Open your fucking eyes, Tia!” I growl low and threateningly against the sweet smelling softness of her neck, nothing. I lie on my good side, facing her. My harsh and angry words wash over her luminescent, porcelain-smooth skin with absolutely no effect. Ghostly silent and unbelievably beautiful, I find I can’t not touch her. It would be a crime against all things heavenly and human. Using a feather-light touch with my fingertips, I trace her hairline, the arch of her brow, and along her cheekbone under her long, dark, lashes fanning out on her cheek. I pause a moment, my fingers come to rest on her lips, soft and full, and parted slightly, letting shallow breaths in and out. They look too dry, a little cracked, and no longer flushed with colour and life. I carefully roll closer and press my own wet lips to hers, a gentle moisture exchange for the sake of her health and my sanity.
Her lips are warm and so damn soft I forget myself. I should at least show some damn restraint, she’s unconscious for chrissake. Still, would her lips move like this if that were the case? Would the monitor’s steady monotonous beat be racing like my own heart if she were asleep?
Holy fuck!
Small urgent hands thread and fiercely grip my hair like she’s using the strands to pull her from oblivion. I welcome the tearing pain because it means just one thing: My girl is back. I deepen the kiss, wrap and twist my tongue around hers. I know I have seconds before I’m pulled off of her, the monitor sounds like it’s about to have a coronary. My heart is thumping harder than that, but it feels fucking wonderful. She moans into my mouth, and I’m flying higher than the fucking space station. I pull back because I worry for a brief moment she might actually need the air I’m stealing from her lungs with my unchecked hunger. Hooded eyes meet mine and her breathy whisper assures me that’s not the case.
