“Can you tell me where I can buy clothes? You know, like T-shirts and stuff.”
“Oh, you’ll have to drive into C’ville for that, sir.”
He nodded his thanks and lifted a hand as she called, “Happy Independence Day!” to his retreating back. “And welcome to Blackwood!”
God, he needed exercise or he’d go crazy in this place. Maybe he’d go for a run when he got back to his room.
Back in his truck, he started up the engine and drove down Main Street with a sense of relief, so out of place here, it was like having a target etched onto his back instead of the Sultans’ emblem.
* * *
A glance at the clock showed George that she’d spent more time investigating her patient than she should have—especially since she shouldn’t have done it at all. Slow and stupid from the heat, she stood up, shut everything down, and headed outside.
It was nearly dark and Blackwood crackled with energy—muggy and sultry with air that felt like it hadn’t moved in months, but tonight an extra jolt of electricity seemed to spice it up. The few steps to her car, so familiar, were done thoughtlessly, no attention paid to her surroundings, to a voice a bit farther down the road, yelling something. The sound didn’t sink in until she’d opened the door and realized it was a woman, her voice shrill and then sharply cut off with what might have been a slap.
There, across the street, silhouettes closer now, running, a scuffle, one person down.
“Hey!” George yelled, protective instincts kicking in. “What’s going on?”
A shriek, a thud.
She dropped everything and ran.
Weird, in those moments, how things sped up and froze all at once. She was aware of furtive movement and an unnatural stillness, the buzzing of the streetlight above, the crunch of grit under her sandals.
The couple on the sidewalk was closer now, things still murky, but it was a man, definitely a man. Attacking a woman?
“Hey!” George yelled, slapping at his arms.
I’ll run and get my phone was George’s last thought before the man struck her, right in the stomach, doubling her over and stealing every last bit of breath from her body.
“The fuck off me, bitch!”
My phone, George thought with a glance back at her car, and then thwack. She was down. Suddenly, the blond woman was up, yelling and hitting her—the woman who’d sounded so scared… And another man appeared from out of nowhere.
Ungffff. A kick to her leg. The woman, she thought.
“Fuck you!” yelled the woman. “Hittin’ my man.”
There were three of them. Two men and one woman. George caught flashes of bodies and faces, more screaming, directed at her this time. Harsh words interspersed with flashes of bare legs, shorts, sneakers, explosions of color overhead.
Young. No wrinkles. More words hurled at her. Another glimpse. A face covered in lesions. George curled in on herself.
Drugs, her mind supplied, slow but catching up. These people were on drugs.
Adrenaline and fear went into overdrive. Too late. She writhed on the ground, holding her tender belly, strangely aware of the gritty surface of the gutter beneath her, the odd grain of sand shining brightly despite the late hour. All she could do was protect her face and her abdomen. Who’d feed Leonard if she didn’t make it home? Who would put the chickens to bed? Trying not to think of the baby she’d never have if she died right here, she groaned. Not from the dull ache in her womb, but from regret.
Something changed in the air then. She felt it, even folded in on herself. Somebody grunted—an unpleasant sound. With an effort, George maneuvered herself into a tighter ball against the curb and lifted her head. What little breath she’d managed to gather escaped in a whoosh.
It was Andrew Blane. She’d conjured him, probably, and here he was, saving the day with a strangely quiet, grim, hard-edged concentration. One of her attackers was already halfway to the ground, the woman running away, fast, by the time George cleared the fog from her eyes. As she watched, Andrew dealt with the third person in a move that was quick and violent. Efficient—no, surgical was a better word for the punch to the neck, the echoing kick low on the man’s leg. Oh Lord, but it looked barbaric, frightening for the speed and ease with which it was delivered.
A final blow to one of the kids’ faces had blood spattering in a tall, almost graceful arc, and George couldn’t stop the scared whimper she let out.
When he turned to her, her savior’s breathing looked normal. How could he be that way after the bloody havoc he’d just wreaked? She thought, for a crazed moment, that he was some kind of spy—a Jason Bourne type, an unfeeling psychopath, whose only external mode of expression was through the writing on his skin.
But then he looked at her, and she knew, with absolutely certainty, that he wasn’t some instrument of aggression. He might move like a man who knew how to hurt another human being, but when his eyes met hers, she saw that the one who was hurting was him. And how messed up was it that all she wanted to do was make him feel better?
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