Chapter LXXIII: The Death of Reinette
He growled, lurching forward. Shoving his way through the backs of revellers, trying to reach her in time. He could see it from the angle. It was wrong. Like a bird that had forgotten how to fly, her limbs stiffening in the air, falling like a dead-weight.
She fell…
…and he heard it.
An absence of sound, different from the last time. So different that it took him a moment to register the reason. The body splayed in front of him. Her eyes wide and unseeing, no longer reflecting the light above their heads.
Unable to grasp what he was seeing. The way her skull had split on one side, the blood mingling with the silver strands. A pool of blood spreading from her back. It was everywhere. Rancid gobs of blood, the smell of nightshade foul, permeating the ground. But he would fix it. He could still fix it. He just needed more time…
A minute. Two minutes. Singe pushing him aside. His medical bag open and a roll of knives brought out. Syringes. Tubing. An incision made in her throat. Trying to force life into her veins. Trying to make sense of it when a shriek suddenly cut through the night, jerking him out of his thoughts.
Sabine.
She'd pushed her way through the crowd. Half-drunk and sobbing, she was shrieking something at him. It was his fault. Twenty-six and a torrent of fury, struggling to attack him while Rena pulled her back, soothing her head. Like she was a child again, taking her inside before she could see the carnage. Rena who could not feel, yet somehow had…sorrow…in her scent.
It was madness.
All of it.
Even in the quiet settling around them. Allegra starting to usher people into the house. Four minutes. Raze posting guards to keep the stragglers back. Six minutes. Singe working in the corner of his eye. Eight minutes. A full ten before he gave up, shaking his head as he put the instruments down. Saying something about the rate of regeneration, that the poison had overtaken it…
Deceased.
His voice threatening to…do something…when he heard it. Raze the only one to notice what was happening, quickly signing instructions for the few who remained. James on the major contingent, McNally on the minor. Singe taking the lead on cause of death. Transferring the body to his lab. Collecting samples from the ground. All of it happening so quickly that she was gone before the blood had dried.
Until it was just him and Raze left in the garden. Neither of them talking, but neither of them moving either. Even when he knew too much time had passed. That they were not…coming for him. Not until Allegra emerged from the house with a shawl around her shoulders, whispering something to Raze…
Safe-house.
They wanted him in a safe-house…
…except he couldn't move. And the whole time, he could feel them watching him. Waiting for something. The temperature starting to drop. Making him realise how long he'd been sitting there. That he was a fool to be waiting for news. Staring at his hands in a daze and then looking down at himself. For the first time, seeing what they were seeing.
He was covered in her blood. His hands starting to shake. His shirt, his coat…everything.
Still able to smell her. Her disappointment. The ferocity with which she'd left him. Like…something wrong…was clinging to his skin. All of it threatening to unravel as he started walking.
Away from it.
Now.
o…o…o
Two hours later.
Blood on her pearls, thought Allegra. Her choice to roost by the fireside only serving to underline how poor a choice it had been to wear white that evening.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
Raze was continuing to stand stoic by the door. Always the two of them, always waiting, she thought, reflecting on four hundred years of favours that could never be repaid. So many times that she could no longer remember the best of them. Only that the world had cared little for an ageing, Venetian courtesan before an ill-tempered stranger threw a die to save her skin.
"He ought to be in a safe-house," she added. Possibly for the fourth time. "At least until we secure the grounds."
Raze kept his peace. "I know."
The door opened.
Finally, she thought. Looking behind her as Lucian walked past. The scent suggesting that if they got in his way, he'd be adding to the red already smeared upon his person. Always hard to tell what kind of mood they'd be meeting.
Glancing at her husband and then promptly ignoring the warning look he was giving her as she leaned back in her chair. "Aleksey, are you alright?"
There was no answer...
He'd left the bathroom door ajar. The porcelain tub ignored in favour of the washstand, as though he still could not get out of the habit of using less water, even when taps were available. Methodically wringing a cloth out over the basin until most of the blood had been cleaned off. Letting the red drip through his fingers.
Fair enough.
She tried another path. The Council already informed and more than a few of their number now questioning how such an invasion had happened twice now—and in the same den, no less. So whether he liked it or not, there was an automobile with his name on it and a safe-house on the far end of that.
"Aleksey, I've arranged for you to…"
He cut her off. "Do we know how he gained access?"
Raze took a step forward. Hands behind his back and eyes front. Already going through the motions. "He slipped in several days before we opened the house," he said. "No kills before this evening. Hiding in the boiler room. The burns made his scent difficult to detect."
He yanked a towel from the rack. "And how did he know we'd be here?"
"We're working on that."
This is not the time, she thought grimly, looking to Raze and receiving the expected lack of assistance that seemed to exist whenever all three of them were in a room together. Already planning how long she'd have before the Council got wind of it.
"Where is he being held?"
"Eight levels down."
Enough.
She stood. "Aleksey, you cannot kill him."
He was bent over, drying his hair off. "Who said I was going to kill him?"
She looked between them…and then raised her hands up. Apparently she was the only one who attended Line meetings. "Even torture is off the table at this point—and you know the Council will want to interrogate him."
He brushed past her.
"Through the appropriate channels this time," she muttered, trying not to recall what they did or did not know about him disappearing for two days right before the supposed suicide of a prominent Blackmark. The number of times they'd lied for him.
Another towel dropped on the ground. He was picking through shirts now. One of a dozen he must have discarded in the early evening. Years of seeing each other in all manners of undress causing neither Raze nor herself to turn away under the circumstances.
Even if it left her feeling flustered, less because of the sight and more because her night was about to turn into the same mess he'd left in the bathroom. "Can you at least tell us what your intentions are?"
He shrugged on a pair of trousers and his coat. The usual arming of weapons. Doing the last button up and ignoring the collar. "I just want to talk to him."
"For how long?"
"Seven minutes."
"Aleksey, you can do that after we get you to a…"
The door shut.
"…a safe-house," she finished. Already aware that she was speaking to a closed door. Blood-stained clothing. Towels everywhere. The death of Reinette now weighing upon her in a manner she had not expected. Mocking her like dresses chosen for a season that would never come. The melancholy causing her to pick up a shirt, frown at the stain…and then rather than fold it as she might have done four hundred years ago, she let it fall. "He's going to kill him, isn't he?"
Raze nodded.
She sighed, looking down at her pearls before rubbing his shoulder. "I'll start the paperwork."
o…o…o
Ten floors down.
It was a mess.
Although there was order to be found in even the most chaotic of cadavers, decided Singe with some relish. For example, her skull had cracked precisely along the temporal bone. A portion of the brain matter leaking onto his table, but he knew once he started cutting, the lines would be clean again. The organ would be in a jar…
... and then the true work would begin. His lab already providing him with an orderly state of mind. The clinical surfaces, the knowledge that all his tools were exactly where he had placed them causing all the blood, gore, and broken pieces in the world to align into an acceptable pattern.
Reflecting that in many ways, the night had been remarkably positive. He was finally getting to see the inside of a creature he had wished to dissect for over twenty years. Which was not to say that he did not feel the same way about most of his acquaintances.
Only that this one was special. The occasion prompting him to take his time with the necessary photographs. Samples of hair, nails, and saliva. The external examination of the cadaver revealing 'Atropa belladonna,' commonly known as deadly nightshade, on her fingertips and tongue. The cause of death likely relating to the silver flask found in her quarters, but still warranting further study before he was willing to make a conclusion.
Upon undressing the subject, though all distinguishing features were in her file, he still made note of them, including the brand in her side. The pelvis, both femurs and the left tibia broken from the fall. Adding the obligatory checks into the report before proceeding to the internal examination.
Only then, taking the time to remove a disc record from his private collection, placing it carefully on his personal phonograph. Song to the Evening Star from Tannhäuser. Recorded in 1909.
His eyes lit up.
Wagner.
It was magnificent. Twenty years he had waited for this moment. The first cut beginning at the right shoulder and running down the length of her chest to the sternum. The second mirroring the first before he used shears to open the chest cavity. Pausing to make a note…and then turning to perform a final check on each receptacle jar, ticking them off as the crescendo began. Heart. Lungs. Kidneys. Brain—
His face smashed into one of the jars. The impact driving all thought of Wagner out of his head. The room going black for exactly… Singe groaned, rolling onto his side. Struggling to find his place in the music. Three minutes. He'd been unconscious for three minutes. His state of mind further degraded by the presence of a facial fracture, a concussion, and quite possibly a brain contusion.
It was also for this reason that he failed to notice the more pressing fact for a further sixteen seconds, while he crawled onto his knees and searched for his glasses.
The body was missing.
o…o…o
Meanwhile…
Blissfully ignorant of the music playing below, Lucian had settled himself into a soundless room that seemed perfectly suited for its purpose. Three foot-thick walls on all sides. The bars were steel, but really it was the chains that kept people down. Lycan-wrought steel. And a sun-trap in the ceiling if things became dire. And they would, he decided. Staring at the sun-trap for exactly two minutes before he started.
"So what should I call you?"
Even with the burns, there was a look of tremendous confusion on the vampire's face. "Mr. Itzhak, it is many years since we last made acquaintance…" He tried to bow in his chains. "…I am Nikolai Proshkov Andreev. Great-grand-nephew of Vasili Igorovich Andreev. On behalf of myself and my family, I am thankful for your…"
"No, I know who you are," he said, cutting in. "I'm just trying to understand what I should call you."
It was like catching flies with honey. The vampire practically snapped his teeth together in his eagerness. Still refusing to speak Russian as though the farce of poor English could bury his monstrosity. "Please to be calling me Kolya."
Kolya.
He nodded to himself... and then started searching through his pockets. "Do you remember what I told Vasili the night before we met, Kolya?"
The blue eye frowned in consternation. "Apologies, Mr. Itzhak, but I am not privy to this conversation."
No matter.
He found the box. "I told him that I was going to burn you alive, finger by finger, piece by piece," he said. Shaking a match out. "Starting with an eye, I should think…"
"Mr. Itzhak," said the vampire. "…I am not understanding. My only purpose is to help. After I wake in fire, it is no longer Hrafn who is controlling my movements. I swear to you, I am travelling for many years, searching for answers…"
"I do not care," he said. And it was a lie because he could still…see her. On the stones. Bleeding out, while this fuck continued breathing. To the point that it was taking all of his willpower to keep his voice from shaking.
The vampire squinted. "But she will wake."
He lit the match. "Well, she might have," he said, drawing the candle closer to himself. "…except after she drank…whatever it was you gave her…she fell…and landed on her skull," he said. "So no—she's not waking up from this one."
And for the first time, the vampire seemed to register what was about to happen. Looking at the candle. "Please, Mr. Itzhak." As though he was the one who was being unreasonable. "…I am promising you, she will wake. I am not forcing her. It is choice I give her. To drink or not to drink. As I have said, my only purpose is to be helping…"
No, he thought. He was not listening. Not anymore. Not to the lies. Not the poison coming from the mouth of this snake. Instead he picked up the candle. "I want you to understand that this is going to take less than seven minutes."
"Mr. Itzhak, truly, I am only wishing to…"
There was a knock on the door.
One long, two short.
Urgent.
Probably Raze sending a message to remind him of the potential consequences of killing an infiltrator before they had sufficient time to question him.
"Come," he said, putting the candle down momentarily. Continuing to stare at his prey while he listened. Taking in the words…
…and then with a scowl, turning towards the door. "What do you mean you lost her?"
o…o…o
Three minutes later.
He smelled it before he reached the laboratory. Blood, formaldehyde, and at least a half contingent of soldiers. McNally and four others gathered around the door when he arrived and a further two trying to see over the heads of the ones in front. Their scents muddled into a mixture of fear and trepidation. All of them getting out of his way before he could give an order. It might have been the remaining blood-spatter on his face. That or his expression.
A part of him…
…an extraordinarily small part of him wishing that for once in his blood-forsaken life, the world could work in his favour. And yet, he knew…he knew the likelihood of such beliefs and for that reason, he was already preparing himself for the worst. Wary that there could be more of them. That there had been three intruders the last time and the theft of her body could easily be a ploy. So that by the time, he pushed the door open to the laboratory…
…he was livid.
Unable to take in the mess. The blood on the walls and floor. The examination table with its curtain ripped. The sound of glass being swept across the outer hallway. Unable to process how a dead body could just…disappear…given the level of ineptitude required for such an event to occur.
"Explain."
Singe was at his microscope. Continuing to make notes on a clipboard, despite the presence of several cuts on his face. "Atropa belladonna," he said, still bent over the slide. Only the left lens of his glasses was intact. "It destroys the cell membrane."
He had no patience for this.
The number of eyes on his back prompting him to turn on his heel and slam the door shut in their faces. Taking a moment to breathe before turning around again. "I told you to explain."
There was a terse exhale from Singe. "Lucian, I am trying to understand it myself—but it would seem the nightshade…somehow with the concoction in the flask, after destroying her cells, it initiated a state of mitosis…"
It was still not making sense. "Mitosis?"
"Regeneration."
But she…
It felt like his legs were about to go. He reached for the closest stool. Thankful he'd closed the door on the onlookers. "Alive?"
"Yes."
Her skull.
His chest was pounding. He could feel the strangest sensation building in his throat. "Where?"
There was an aimless gesture towards the doors. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"She attacked you?"
"Yes."
Well, it's not the first time, he thought in passing. Leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes for a second. Too relieved to do anything more than just…take it in. She was alive. The relief tinged by the acrid scent still coming from the flask. Making him wonder if Kolya was lying. If she'd known it contained nightshade before drinking it…
Which meant a talk.
Except he could practically feel her door shutting in his face. The long silences. Her constant refusal to talk longer than four minutes since they came to Durness. But as long as she was still breathing, they could argue about it later, he decided. Too weary to deal considering how close they were to sunrise. "I'm taking the minor contingent. If she surfaces before I find her, can you call me?"
"Assuming she does not run."
He frowned, turning at the door. "Why would she run?"
Singe flicked some of the glass out of his broken frames. "Because I suspect that she can now."
o…o…o
All of which did little to prepare him for the exact moment when he did find her. Ten floors down. The first network of caves below the den. Easy enough to follow the trail. The curtain she'd dragged with her mostly obscuring her form until he reached down to pick her up…looked down…and then jerked back, letting the arm drop with a thud.
Oh fuck.
She was young.
Spattered in blood. A wave of dark hair matching the stain of the rock. Yet he knew her face. The familiar jaw, the lady whose face had haunted him from that photograph. Like plucking a dying flower and finding a new one in its place. Identical in structure, the stem carrying the same height, the same weight, the same stature…
That had been two minutes ago. Behind him, Singe, McNally and the rest of the minor contingent were waiting for orders. He ought to call Raze. Or Allegra. Except he was not quite there yet. Instead, he was crouching in the tunnel. Not quite…able…to reach forward. At first struggling to process his surroundings and now just…
…crouching.
Trying to come up with a word…
…and then turning to face Singe. "Which part of this was not worth mentioning?"
"You asked me if she was alive—I said yes."
He bit his tongue. "I asked because her skull had been crushed…"
"And now it is not."
Yes, thank you, he thought, scrubbing his face. Wondering if he should keep pressing the point, but then cutting his losses. Knowing he was just buying time for himself. "And you're certain it's her?"
"I have yet to form an opinion." Singe was getting his instruments out. Syringes, alcohol swabs, rubber tubing. "But assuming the brand is still there, I would say, yes."
He eyed the curtain. "Well, can you check?"
"Any of us could check."
"I could check."
His patience snapped. "McNally, can you get the fuck out of this tunnel please?"
The burly lycan reddened…and then backed off out of the tunnel. About twenty feet. Going back to stand with the rest of his contingent. They were all unnerved. All of them facing away, but smelling like they'd seen the Messiah. Blood, but it was making him nervous. Keeping his eyes front as Singe checked under the curtain. Which in itself brought the first dilemma.
It was wrong to look. He knew that. So wrong that if he had to put it on a scale, it would be on the same notch as looking at his sister while she was taking a bath. Or an aged aunt, he thought, glancing down…
…and immediately grimacing, wishing that for once, he'd kept his eyes to himself. Not the sight he'd been expecting to see. The lowering of his curiosity making him look with some disdain at Singe before he pointed. "Why is there a hole in her chest?"
"I needed to look at the organs."
"You cut her open?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Twenty minutes ago."
He nearly scraped his claws on the ceiling…and then leaned forward, feeling like he had to whisper. "Who gave you permission?"
"She was dead."
"Fucking hell, Singe."
Singe shrugged, continuing with his work. The rubber tubing tied around her arm, the skin wiped down and the needle sliding into her veins. It was a quick process. The needle removed and the sample about to be secreted away to his bag for the sake of testing later.
Or it would have been.
She gasped, the sound of a drowned cadaver waking to life. Her eyes flickering open. Violent and deadly, the colour of the sea caught in each iris. The spasm drawing up blood, causing her to turn on her side, spitting the last of what was obstructing her lungs. He could hear the wound starting to knit itself together. The squelch of intestines.
It smelled…awful.
But familiar, he realised. Considering the number of times in twenty years when she'd managed to spew some form of vomit on his clothing after a night of too much drinking. Staring at his shirt…and then quickly putting a hand forward before she could sit up.
"Just…a minute…" he said. "…how many fingers?"
Three.
Which was the number she should have said.
But she was staring at him, squinting as though his face was too bright. Her eyes darting from face to face in the tunnel, seeing Singe, seeing the men behind him, searching for something. It reminded him of…twenty years ago. The day he woke her and she'd found herself…trapped. Something more than just confusion. The first words out of her mouth sounding like a stream of unintelligible consonants and syllables off her tongue…
…and fortunately, given the number of times she'd sworn at him in twenty years, he could identify it. Not the dialect. Not the meaning. Just the tongue.
Saami.
He looked across the tunnel. "Singe…"
"I…" The scientist was shaking his head. "I have…only theories…"
"Sedative," he murmured, hoping to blood the man had brought one, this time holding her down with his knee. She was starting to struggle. The flesh knitting itself together, her movements getting stronger.
"Lucian, I have as much understanding of this situation as…"
It was like a horse bolting from the stables. Her scent spiked with fear. The name turning the tunnel into chaos as she shoved them back, swiping a scalpel from the open bag.
He had no time for shock.
She lunged.
He jerked back, dodging the blade by an inch. Raising a wary hand. "Nette…"
Again, she went for his throat.
He caught her wrist. Struggling to get the blade. Blue eyes staring fiercely into his own. She was in shock. She had to be in shock. But it was more than that. Something in the way her eyes were watching him.
Again without warning, she reacted. Latching onto his wrists, pulling him forward and jamming his head against her knee, then twisting his arm behind his back, dislocating it at the shoulder and stabbing him in the right knee.
He growled in pain. Too slow. Legs kicked out from under him. Hitting the ground with a thud. The air knocked out of him. Clutching his knee. Feeling her crawl over him and past. Slipping on blood as she reached back in the tunnel, finding the largest rock that he'd seen that side of Scotland.
Oh fuck, he thought. Trying to back away even as the rock crunched into the side of his head. The world fading into black as he heard it. Growls. Screams. People running. Not towards her.
Away.
o…o…o
When he woke, his gun was pointed at his eye. The Smith and Wesson Triple Lock. Manufactured in 1915. Six rounds. She'd used one of the cords from his pockets, tying his hands in front of him and weaving the line around his ankles. Tight enough that he wouldn't be able to break free before she fired. Not to mention there was a scalpel still in his knee.
His voice sounding like a croak when he used it. "Did you kill anyone?"
There was no answer. Reinette...or not Reinette...ignoring his question with half her back turned to him. Continuing to search through the pile that was sitting in front of her. All the things from his pockets. She was wearing his coat. A section of the blood-stained curtain tied around her waist and a shirt from one of the lycans who fled…
...or died.
Twenty years since he'd watched her pawing through his things. The same expression. The same mannerisms. Right down to the fountain pen. The interest on her face as she frowned, touching the nib of it.
"Reinette, if you would just…"
She let the pen fall. Focusing her attention on the gun again. Examining the three locking mechanisms. "Why do you call me that?"
"It's been your name for twenty years," he said, trying to avoid tearing all the muscle in his knee again. "…and as your ally, until you give me another one, I will use it."
"Why would I give my name to an animal?"
He felt like sighing. "You wouldn't."
"Then you agree," she said. And he knew it. Even beneath the coldness, he knew that smell, the scent of a growing indignation at his existence. "Our kind do not mix."
"You've been living with lycans for twenty years."
"Lycans are dogs—"
"…their habits are unclean," he finished. "Is there anything else you'd like to level against me while we're sorting through your memories?"
She looked up with a grimace. A whiff of surprise on her scent that he knew the saying. "You don't know me."
"As I said... we are allies. We have been allies since 1899." He gritted his teeth, trying to sit up. "You were in a half-sleep when I woke you…"
"The year is 1877," she said crisply, examining his pocket-watch for an inscription before snapping it shut. "…and if I had an ally, he would not be a madman pretending to be a dead tyrant."
"It's 1919."
"That's impossible."
He snorted, nudging his head towards the barrel. "Does that gun look like it's from 1877?"
She kept the weapon trained on his eye. "If the bullets are silver, does it matter?"
"You found those, did you?"
It felt like she was dissecting him. Typical given how she'd already spent twenty years observing him out of the corner of her eyes. Making him wonder what other secrets she might know about him in her subconscious. Her eyes refusing to blink as she considered the torn lining of his coat and then pointed the question with the gun. "Why would a lycan carry a secret stash of silver bullets?"
"I have trust issues."
"With your own people?"
"And then some." He was talking through his teeth now. Blood, but he needed to get the scalpel out. "Although I thought the two of us might be past that."
"There is no 'us.'"
"Except for the part where you stabbed me in a place where you knew I'd have trouble healing."
"You were favouring the leg."
No, I was not, he thought, feeling mildly affronted by the accusation. It might cause the odd twinge every now and then, but the bones had knit perfectly well. And the cane was gone, so…
…fuck.
She was getting the upper hand, he realised. Refusing to break gaze…and then dropping his last card on the table. "Alright," he said. Comfortable with playing this game. "Here's one for you—what language am I speaking?"
"Russian."
"You really think so?"
Her eyes blinked…
…and still she fought it. Immediately discounting what she'd heard, despite the fact that he'd been speaking English for the last eight sentences. "How do I get out of here?"
He eyed the back of his own pocket-watch. "The sun rises in less than forty-seven minutes, so I'm not sure why you'd want to…"
"You're lying."
"I keep a very precise schedule."
"Then we'll wait."
"For how long?"
"Until the sun goes down."
"What month do you think it is?"
"January."
"It's November and you have no idea where we are, which I suspect could fuck up your timing. Not to mention that watch is on Danish time, so…"
"What do you know of Denmark?"
He switched his tongue. "I speak Danish, if that helps."
"If you want to call it that," she said, still examining the pocket-watch.
The words stopping him short. Because out of everything she had just done over the past four hours, including her own resurrection, this was the first time he felt like asking for clarification.
"Are you saying my accent is shit?"
"Yes."
"Thank you for that," he said pointedly. And typically he might even have left it, but given that she was holding a silver bullet to his eye, they might as well level the fucking thing out in private. "You've had nine years to say something and you just couldn't be bothered?"
She sighed, tucking the watch in a coat-pocket. "I don't know you."
"Yes—you do," he countered, still speaking Danish. "…except apparently not well enough to tell me when I'm fucking up a language that you speak fluently…"
She breathed in deeply as though taking a hold of something. "Can we go back to Russian please?"
He shook his head. Resolved now and choosing to lean back against his rock, the gun be damned. "I'm sticking with Danish."
"You're butchering it."
"That's not what Freyja said."
"Who's Freyja?"
"My tutor."
"Is she Danish?"
"Yes."
She thought about it. That same look, the one where she took one of his dilemmas in all its complexity and narrowed it down to a simple solution. "You should get a new tutor."
He started laughing. "I don't really have a choice in the matter."
And she nearly smiled.
In spite of all of it, he nearly had her. But then she fought it again. The jaw hardening as she indicated the mouth of the tunnel. "You've been stalling for time," she said. "Which means it's dark. If you lead me out of here, I'll let you live."
"What makes you think it won't be the other way around?"
"I'm stronger than you."
"You're not afraid that I might be who I say I am?"
She removed a knife from another pocket and moved forward to cut the cord around his ankles. "Considering how you behave, I think you might be more of a fool than a monster."
"I'm actually quite frightening when I want to be."
"Get up."
He breathed out. "Can you take the scalpel out?"
"No."
Fine.
He forced himself up.
It was going to be a long climb.
o…o…o
In theory, the tunnel he chose ought to have come out on empty sand dunes. Instead, he failed to factor in just how much backup McNally and Singe had called for. Two contingents pointing their guns at her neck, while she kept her own trained on his eye. Naturally, Raze was at the front…
Watching his hands, more than her gun. The one silver bullet held between his fingers, keeping everyone back as they inched forward through the ranks. Eyes glinting. Everyone from the minor contingent accounted for, McNally included—but all carrying more bruises and blood than they should have considering she'd been a single opponent. All of them looking as though they were ready to tear her to pieces.
The clock still ticking in his head. Ten minutes in total to leave the rescue party behind. The sky still dark as they made their way forward up into the dunes. Climbing steps until they reached level ground. The caves far below and a wide expanse of nothing all around them. Her gun…his gun…now on the back of his head.
"Do you think there's shelter around here?"
"Stop talking."
"I'm just curious what your plan is," he grunted. Still limping forward on the knee. Taking a breather at the top and picking up a rock as he got back to his feet. "I mean, personally, I think you're being a bit rash…"
"I told you to stop talking."
He turned around. "And if I don't?"
She took a step back. "Drop it."
"Or what?"
"I'll shoot you."
"Alright."
He dropped the rock.
And then he shoved the barrel of the gun towards her head, pointed up and pulled the trigger. Just as she slammed her fist into his jaw. The pain ricocheting off the inside of his skull, causing his lungs to catch. Bones breaking. His throat constricting as he forced it to heal, waiting for the next attack. Wary that the gun had fallen closer to her reach. The likelihood that she'd go for his right side again…
Worse than Victoria's Head.
Except she was just lying there now. Staring dimly at the sky above them. A stray hand rising to her cheek, touching the place where the bullet had entered her skull. Looking around them…and then squinting up at him.
"Lu…Lyosha?"
Fucking hell, he thought. His jaw was pounding. Taking an extra minute to bend over his knees. Breathing hard before nodding wearily.
She rolled onto her side. Trying to sit up. Her leg taking her down twice before she touched her skull. "You…" She frowned in a daze at him. "…you shot me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She sounded groggy. Likely she had a concussion. Or a bullet in her brain. Thankfully, he'd reached that point in the morning where he no longer cared.
He spat a tooth on the ground. "Because we have…eighteen minutes until sunrise." He pointed to the east. "There is no shelter for thirty-six miles in all directions, and it takes ten minutes to get back to the house." With a grunt, he pulled the scalpel out. "So yes…I shot you."
She started mumbling something. Trying to pull herself up. "You didn't have to…" The bullet suddenly emerged from the wound. Making her blink. Like watching a jolt of electricity pass through an animal. Then her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
She fell over.
Well, that is just fucking brilliant, he thought, scowling down at her and then eying his knee. Wishing it could be simpler. Wishing to blood she'd just thrown the flask off the balcony. And then he picked up the gun, threw her over his shoulder and turned west.
Seventeen minutes until sunrise. Ten minutes to get back to the house.
And that was if he ran.
A/N: Whaaaaat a wild past three months! Just moved to a new home, new baby on the way, toddler screaming "Maaaaama", husband yelling "Bring me a bucket, there's water coming out of a pipe," and cat feeling nauseated because of the move. Yes, I wrote this chapter secretly on my phone in bathrooms and closets while my family was knocking on the door, asking "What are you doing?" I am hiding and writing fanfiction, that is what I am doing.
Thank you so much to Barbara Dias, Wynter Phoenix, Sand dan Glokta, Hannah-Brieton65, Ursiearielw12, Mary Petrova, Codenameyikes, Books-n-Harleys, MermaidBitch, LovingBitch, Malik, Love-in-Halsey, Eileen, Allison Annelize, ArielThinker, Aurora, and all the lovely guests who read and reviewed. Regarding questions, I've not seen Somewhere in Time, but I will look it up! Onto the next chapter (which hopefully will come sooner since I've already written half).