15

Luc waited for her to disappear into the bathroom before going onto the front porch, pulling out the sheriff’s card, and dialing. Straight to voice mail, which agitated the hell out of him. Instead of leaving a message—the hardest thing to do in English, as far as Luc was concerned—he called the other number on the card: dispatch.

“Blackwood Sheriff’s Department, how may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to the sheriff.”

“Is this an emergency, sir?”

He hesitated, focused on where the cabin was and whether anyone could get to them through the pelting snow. Was it an emergency? He swallowed. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“If it’s an emergency, we—”

“I just need to talk to him. Please. Tell him it’s Luc Stanek calling.”

“Just a moment.”

He waited through half of an upbeat reggae song, almost annoyed at himself for wanting to move to the music. My God, there was something diabolical about making people calling the authorities listen to those happy, happy words.

Finally, an answer: “What can I do for you, Mr. Stanek?”

“Sheriff.” Luc breathed for a few seconds. What am I doing? What do I say? “They’ve hurt her.”

“Excuse me?”

“The…cult people. She’s here. At my house. Hurt and cold. I think she came close to hypothermia.”

“Hang on. Did they hurt her? You know this?”

“No. No, she didn’t tell me. She—” Luc cut himself off and swallowed hard, wondering, Why didn’t I get more information from her first? Why didn’t I ask her? Because she didn’t want me to call, that’s why. “I have no idea what they’ve done. What I do know is they came to my house looking for her in the middle of the night.”

“Did they threaten you, sir?”

“Yes. Although, not in so many words.”

“What does that mean?”

“The man—Isaiah Bowden, he’s their leader—mentioned it would be a shame if my vines burned down, so…not overt, but definitely a threat. They said she was mentally ill.” His voice went a bit rough at the end, and he paused. “She’s not.”

On the other end was silence. He could picture the sheriff’s face as he took it in, his eyes considering the situation, even over the phone, with as much focus as he’d given Luc before.

Finally, he asked, “Is she in need of medical attention?”

“Yes. I don’t know the extent, but yes, she probably needs medical attention. She won’t accept it, though.”

A grunt. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Luc paused. “They don’t believe in medicine over there. But I don’t think that’s it.”

“Would she come with us if I found a way to get to her?”

Luc thought about the way she’d stiffened when he’d talk about calling the cops. “I don’t think so.”

The sheriff sighed, and Luc wanted to join him. Luc didn’t understand what was happening either, didn’t want to deal. And yet, when he was in the same room with Abby, beside her, talking with her… This distance was good. He wasn’t himself when she was around. He liked her too much.

The phone crackled in his hand, the connection worse than usual.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanek. But we’re in the middle of a major storm here.” No shit, thought Luc, staring out at his yard, where the other truck’s tire marks were already disappearing under a thin layer of snow. “I’ve got few resources, and unless this is a life-threatening emergency… If we get out there and she refuses care… Well, you can understand my hesitation. I’m not sure I can get anyone out there for…a day or two, at the least.”

Probably more, thought Luc, knowing what the roads would be like. He could attempt his driveway—the neighbors had done it after all—but the road to town would be risky, and getting stranded with Abby in the shape she was in was too risky.

“Even if this were a major medical emergency, we can’t call in the chopper on a day like today. Nobody’s flying that thing till the snow stops,” the sheriff said. Another sigh, this one sounding exhausted. Luc pictured the man, still in his office, not making it home with the weather. “Honestly, sir, you’d have to have more of an emergency at this point. We only get Pegasus over from UVA for life-or-death situations. Like the multicar pileup I’m headed to right now, up on the interstate.”

Luc nodded, knowing the man was right.

They said their good-byes, leaving things up in the air. He’d get in touch when the storm blew over. If necessary had been the subtext.

Now what?

Luc shut the phone off, shoving it into his pocket, and stood on his porch. The wind was blowing hard, visibility limited now to just a few meters. Usually, from here, he could see his vines, standing sentinel above the valley.

Tonight he stood, waiting for that sense of ownership and rightness, like the evil king in those Lord of the Rings movies, searching, searching, and…nothing.

He turned back to face his front door, and there, his internal radar found what he was looking for—belonging.

With a jolt of unease, Luc realized it wasn’t the vines calling to him. No, tonight, the ping came from another place entirely. Like a beacon, he could feel her in there.

Abby. Today, with his vines out of sight and everything else a tangled ball of confusion, when Luc sought an anchor, he found Abby.

And that scared the hell out of him.

* * *

Abby examined the two pills before putting them into her mouth. They were orange, which struck her as odd. Not bright orange, but the color of plant pots. The color of the soil on the mountain, if you dug down a foot or two. Sweet on her tongue and down her throat, disappearing on a wash of water that felt good, so good. She drank the whole glass before standing up from the toilet and coming face-to-face with her reflection in the mirror.

Oh goodness, look at me.

Her face was a mass of bruises, her hair a bird’s nest in the braid she hadn’t redone in ages. Days, likely, although she’d lost track of time.

When she let the blanket drop and turned, the bandages on her back were stained with fluid, unhealthy. She’d need new ones.

Had he seen those? He must have. And what about her arms? Had he seen the older scars on her arms? The usual wave of pride rolled through her at the sight of those scars, only to bottom out, sharp and acidic in her belly.

Her vision shifted, and with a dizzy lurch, Abby clutched the sink.

A collage of images burst into her brain—standing there, her back exposed, while the men she’d always known as family destroyed her. Sammy, Mama. Hamish in pain. Making the tea for Hamish and leaving it beside his bed. “You can drink it,” she’d said.

The room swirled, too fast to be real, and she sank to her bottom on the bathroom floor. Up was down; good, bad. Sacrifices made as a badge of honor suddenly burned with shame. She’d scratch them off if she had the strength.

Shaky, cold. Bleary-eyed. Not far behind her was the bath. Just get to the bath and wash off the mess. Just do that, and I can sleep.

The bath, once she ran the water and got into it, was torture.

Feet first. Hot, hot, burning against her thighs, not yet reaching her back, where the real torture would begin. But she needed to unstick the bandages. Ignoring the places where the razor wire had cut into her, she sank down, the water cloudy red and smelling of blood within seconds. It wasn’t until she’d submerged fully that she noticed the soap on a ledge high above her head.

Sucking in a hard breath, she leaned on the rim, lifted herself up, grabbed the soap, and dipped back in. The burn of her thighs was sharp, the ache in her back already familiar.

It hurt to sit in this bath—real, physical pain. So much better than the pain of knowing what she’d left behind.

Where are you, Sammy?

The water was hotter than she was used to. Not that they took baths like this at the Church. Sponge baths were pretty much it. It made her feel like a sponge, soaking it up, her muscles adjusting and turning to mush. With a big sound—an ah that came from somewhere deep in her marrow—she sank in farther.

Movement behind the door, almost furtive. Isaiah. He found me.

She sat up fast and pushed to standing, arms up to keep her modest, trembling. She didn’t even notice the honeycomb of gray spots as they crept over her vision, barely recognized the wooziness until the bathwater sloshed around her ankles and she slid down with a thud.

That woke her up.

Was this Hell, this heat? Had Isaiah finally—

A knock—knuckles on wood.

“All right in there?”

Confusion continued to crowd Abby’s vision, held her tongue, belabored her breath. She’d banged her head on the side of the tub, maybe.

Yes. No. No, I am not.

The squeak of hinges. Cool air. A slow turn of her head. Wet, water, coughing.

It was all too fast. Luc’s arms came around her, and she gave him her weight. Luc, Bringer of Light.

She nodded, let the nod become a face rub, noting the cold and the smell of the outside on his clothes before sinking into him with relief.

* * *

As Luc cradled the towel-wrapped woman against him and scanned the bathroom, the word for abattoir came back with crystal clarity—the one he could never seem to remember: slaughterhouse.

Every time he came or went from his property, he was forced to drive right by the neighbors’ goddamned slaughterhouse. The place where they killed and skinned and bled their animals. Pig carcasses, sheep, and chickens. For food, he assumed, although images of sacrifice floated through his head. With Abby in his arms, he could think of nothing but sacrifice.

A dog barked in the distance. One of theirs, no doubt.

Hunting her still.

“I’m sorry.” Abby’s voice reverberated against his chest.

Luc sighed. Et merde. “It’s okay.” He sat on the toilet, soaking wet from her bathwater, wondering what the next move was.

Luc couldn’t guess where to begin. For the second time tonight he held a shivering, near-naked Abby in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut with pain. Call the fucking helicopter. We need the helicopter.

He sucked in a breath. Blood. So much of it. He swallowed, ignoring the earthy smells billowing up from the bath, and eyed her legs. A long gash ran from a gently curving shinbone, up to where it disappeared above her knee, seeping more blood.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were so badly hurt?”

“I didn’t…I didn’t realize,” she gasped. “I was running. Couldn’t feel it till I got up. And the bath…”

“Did they do this to you?”

“No, I did.”

He shook his head to clear it. “What?”

“Running. Climbing the fence. I cut myself.”

“You didn’t crawl through?”

“They closed the hole.”

Anger rose up, hard and hot.

“How are your feet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me see them,” he pushed out through tight lips.

She hesitated.

“We’ve got to take care of this, or it could get worse.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Been…” She gave her head a quick shake, sucked in a shaky breath.

“Here.” He set her down on the edge of the bathtub and lifted her foot into his lap, slowly, gingerly. Even after her bath, traces of mud and dried blood coated her sole. Leaning back, he grabbed a washcloth and busied himself with soaking it at the sink. He did it all without rising from the toilet seat—the advantage of a small bathroom.

Sparing a glance at Abby’s face, he said, “Tell me if this hurts too much.” At her stoic nod, he set to work, gently rubbing at the layers of grime. “Let’s see the other one.” Carefully, he cleaned that foot, too, revealing cuts and areas that looked rubbed raw. Such a tiny foot, naked-looking without the toenail polish that so many women wore like armor.

“Let’s bandage those,” he said, not wanting to set her feet down, to let her go.

“I’ll do it,” she said, trying to pull away. “I’m fine.”

He doubted that. “You need medical care.”

“I need privacy.” Her voice came out stronger, her gaze boring into his.

“You practically fainted in the tub.”

“The water was scalding. I didn’t realize.” A pause. “Please, Luc. I can do the rest myself.”

He eyed her doubtfully.

“I can do it.” This time, her voice was firm, certain, and Luc chose to believe her.

“You can stay sitting up on your own?” he asked, getting a bleary nod in response. For such a small person, she was made of tough stuff, this one. “I’ll be back.” He headed to his kitchen, where he kept his first aid kit—the one he’d bought when he’d hired help at last year’s harvest. He grabbed the big bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a pair of scissors and returned to where she sat, barely propped up on the side of the tub.

“Do you know how to use this? It’s—”

“We may not practice medicine, Luc, but we’re well versed in the art of hygiene.” The look she gave him, full of humor, softened her words. “And cotton,” she said with a half smile. “We know our cotton.”

He smiled in return, because even torn apart and bleeding, this woman had liquid steel running through her veins. He’d seen it outside, in the way she worked, uncomplaining in the cold. He’d seen it in her ability to adapt, learning new things with openness and curiosity. And he saw it in her humor. In the way she smiled and never appeared to feel sorry for herself. He’d never known another woman with such fortitude. Or man, for that matter. How could he not admire that?

The humor meant she’d be okay. Didn’t it? You didn’t laugh at death’s door, right? “What about the bandages on your back?”

“Please, Luc. Please let me do this on my own.”

“Okay,” he answered, breathy with irritation, relief, and some admiration as well. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

“Luc.”

Her voice stopped him at the door, and he turned back. She was beautiful, even wounded and hunched in on herself in his bathroom. Maybe even lovelier, with the bright-pink patches on her cheekbones and the damp curls sticking to the skin along her hairline. Her eyes on his were a fathomless, liquid gold, and all of it, every little thing that should have made her into a victim translated instead to strength. Mistress of her destiny.

“Thank you.”

He left with a muttered, “It’s nothing.”

In the living room, he wandered. The fire, just low-burning embers, needed to be fed. After that…after that, he’d clean up this mess. Only he wasn’t sure which mess he meant—the wad of blankets on the sofa, the bathroom…or Abby’s situation. His situation.

And whatever the hell this night would bring next.