Flailing, her hand found his shard of glass. She fastened onto it and brought it down on him—hard. It went into his shoulder. He cried out and released her throat, trying to flinch away. She heaved it out and brought it down again, trying to get his neck but caught him in the back as he lifted his arm to deflect the blow. He cried out again and let her go. It was enough. She kicked free and crawled away.
And then she made her greatest error.
She had three options, too—the same three he’d had, but instead of going back for him and finishing him off while he was weak, or going for a weapon, she chose freedom and the beautiful light and purity outside the hideousness of the killing shed. He watched her stagger outside, heard her car start and knew he had to move and keep moving. She’d be back. Once she’d realised her mistake and saw she had the upper hand again, she’d come back. This time, he wouldn’t be strong enough to fight her. He began to drag himself across the floor, sliding on his own blood. He reached the blessed light. He held onto the doorframe and dragged up to his feet. He staggered outside into the blinding intensity of the fresh snow, and then he saw her. She was sitting in her car at the end of the track. She’d seen him as well. He began to stagger toward the lake. He pictured himself falling into its icy waters where she couldn’t follow. He fell in the snow and dragged himself along, leaving a bright, wide smear of red on the virgin white. He glanced behind, and she was there—standing over him.
She was holding her throat with one hand, an expression of horror on her face, blood seeping between her fingers. And in her other hand she held a tyre iron. She looked down at him. “You’re a very bad man.”
He turned on his back, staring up at the perfect blue sky. “Yes, I am. And you’re a cunt.” With that, she lifted the iron bar and swung it at his head.
Something came out of the snow and caught her arm. She gasped and flung it off, swinging the iron bar at it. It squealed in pain and flailed in the snow, but then it came back before she could hit Nikolas. She hit it again, but it was quicker this time and twisted away, landing on its feet, a massive creature of standing fur and snarl and savage muzzle. She tried to back away a little, raising the tyre iron once more, but it was a fatal move. The thing lunged. It caught her bloodied throat and had her down in the snow. Then it stood on her—and ripped. She hit it again and again and something broke, but it didn’t let go. She flailed once more, weakly trying to lift the bar, but it bit deeper. It ripped and tore, and her throat came away in its mouth. It continued to chew as she lay staring sightlessly up at vast sky above them.
Finally, the creature staggered away from the body, its face caked with blood. It fell on its side, panting and whining for a moment, but then it stood and limped slowly over to Nikolas. He twitched his fingers, which was all he could do, and Radulf came and stood over him. Putting his head back, he let out an ear-piercing volley of barks into the still, silent day. He kept it up until they could hear the sound of engines, and then he allowed himself to fall alongside his human. Nikolas couldn’t see him or feel his failing warmth as the sound of the engines grew closer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nikolas was fortunately spared participating in his discovery, his transfer to hospital or any other details for many days. He passed into another place where he moved from bright light to darkness and from places where he heard distant voices saying things in languages he’d forgotten how to speak.
He finally woke on the fifth day and saw a man sitting in a chair alongside him. The man stared at him for a moment, exclaimed, “Thank the fucking Lord. At fucking last,” and left—in a hurry. The next person to arrive was wearing a white coat and began to ask him questions he couldn’t answer because his mouth was too dry to move his tongue. The doctor didn’t seem to expect any answers. He nodded to himself, poked Nikolas some more and then left as well.
Next, a young man came into the room. He was familiar, and Nikolas frowned, trying to remember who he was. He was tall and very lean with a shaved, scabby skull. He had wide-set green eyes and was startlingly beautiful. For some reason, he was crying. Nikolas frowned some more and croaked, “Ben?” His eyes widened. The man handed him some water—he was the first one to think to do this—and Nikolas repeated more clearly, “Ben?” then added, “What’s wrong? And what the fuck have you done to your hair?” Ben bit his lip; his face crumpled. He just sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to find something to hold. He picked up one of Nikolas’s bandaged hands and held that.
“Radulf?”
Ben began to cry again, but he was obviously trying to hold it back at the same time. He raised his eyes, bit his lip again, let go of Nikolas’s hand to wipe his face and eventually managed to reply, “Just concentrate on getting better, yeah?”
“I’m fine. Why are you crying?”
“I’m not fucking crying, okay?”
“Fucking? Since when do you swear at me?”
Ben closed his eyes and then gently laid his head down upon Nikolas’s chest.
§ § §
The next time Nikolas woke, he was feeling a lot better. He had a suspicion they’d upped his pain medication, because the sunlight looked as if it were dancing, and everything felt very cheerful. He’d experienced this once or twice before with slightly less legal drugs, so he took the opportunity to enjoy it and get up. He pulled a needle out of the back of his hand and eased himself to sitting—so far so good. He pulled the sheet off and examined himself. His first thought was it was very nice not to be naked for once. He started with his feet. They were black and blue, and his ankle was bandaged but apparently not broken because it was only an elastic bandage—so far so good, again. He didn’t need to note every bruise—everything was bruised. He was black all over, legs, arms, torso. The largest bandages were around his ribs, and there was a faint stain of blood and iodine seeping through them. He had wound coverings on his shoulders and wrists, and his hands were both bandaged. Considering he’d thought he was going to die—and wasn’t it remarkable how many unpleasant ways an ex-torturer could conjure death in his mind?—he felt remarkably good. He eased himself to his feet and shuffled toward the bathroom. You had to be grateful for small mercies in life. Being able to hold himself while he pissed was something he’d been looking forward to. He made it into the small cubicle and took a long piss, clenching his jaw at the pain everywhere now that he was on his feet.
As he tried to remove the bandages on his fingers, he looked up into the mirror. He almost fell. He put his hands up to the mask of white. One eye was completely swollen shut. One cheek was twice its normal size, and his nose was entirely swathed in a huge bandage. He couldn’t feel any of this at all. He turned his head slowly one way and saw a row of Frankenstein stitches across the shaved part of his hair, turned it the other way and saw a large swelling. He heard someone come into the room outside, an exclamation, and then Ben was at his side. They didn’t say anything for a while. Nikolas shrugged. “Just as well one of us is still beautiful.”
Ben clenched his jaw. “You’re such a baby. It’s just a scratch.”
Nikolas tried to smile, but it was impossible. He limped back to the bed with Ben’s help. “Give me my clothes.”
“You’re not leaving. Forget it.”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll do it myself, and I might fall and injure myself, and then it’ll be all your fault.”
Ben helped him pull on some jeans and button a shirt. He didn’t feel quite so ready to leave once this task was completed. Ben helped him lie back on top of the bed and propped him up with a stack of pillows. Nikolas didn’t let him go, holding onto his hand. Ben sat down alongside him. “So, tell me.”
Ben stared at him for a while. “Can we leave it until you’re better?”
“I’m fine, Ben.”
“Can we leave it until I’m better then?”
Nikolas pursed his lips a little. “Not so good, hey?”
“No, not so good.”
