Entice by Carrie Jones

my skin that it’s actually cut me. The pain isn’t so horrible, but I can smell the blood, and the sight of it seems to be making Astley twitch.
    “You can’t order us around, King. We belong to another,” Vander says.
    The wound on the other one’s face is still sizzling. That will scar. He says, “Put down your weapon or Vander kills her right now.”
    “He will kill her either way,” Astley says, as calm as anything.
    I gasp. That is not a cool thing to say. My heart lurches. I trusted him. He said he needed me, and now what? He can just throw me away? I clutch at the fabric of my robe, willing the lump in my heart to vanish, but it doesn’t. Then Astley’s eyes meet my eyes and he looks a bit to the right. It’s just the slightest of looks, but I catch it. He wants me to jump out the monstrous window. We’re five stories up. I can’t fly. But he can. Will he catch me? For a second I wonder if this is all some weird setup to kill me too. Kill my dad, kill me, get rid of the bloodline. But that’s so elaborate and this is Astley. I trust Astley, I tell myself. I do.
    “I’m going to throw up,” I whisper amid the standoff.
    “What?” Vander growls the word.
    “I think I’m going to throw up,” I say again. I force myself to hitch at the stomach. I can’t really throw up, but I can pretend I will. Betty once told me during her weekly “how to survive predators” talks that pretending to throw up can sometimes stop muggings, even rape. Let’s see if it can stop pixies and murder. A choking dry heave sound erupts from my throat. It’s enough to make Vander give me a little slack. The knife is not so sharp against my throat.
    “What should I—?” he starts to say.
    But he doesn’t finish, because I’ve elbowed him in the gut and launched myself sideways into the window. My shoulder smashes through it. Pain prisms out and down my arm, up my neck. My body follows my shoulder through the broken glass and into the cold air. No words escape my lips as I fall through the snowflakes, rushing toward the ground.
    I should close my eyes.
    I don’t.
    My body tilts sideways. The bathrobe unties from the movement. The fabric billows above me. I lift out my arms, wonder if I look like a falling angel. The rumbling of the cars below gets louder. I’ll land on one or on the hard pavement. My body will flatten and break. Hopefully, it will be quick. Hopefully.
    I close my eyes.
    Hands clutch at my robe, hauling me off my straight-down course. Astley. I try to grab at him. He smashes me to his chest, cursing quietly, as my fall down becomes a movement sideways and then up.
    “Astley!” I sob.
    “We are always saving each other,” he whispers into my hair. “Hold on.”
    And we take off into the night sky.
    I’m completely frozen by the time we get to the airport. We land in a horrible thud behind a big truck. Astley apologizes, rubs at my arms, and helps me retie my robe around my waist. I’m shuddering so horribly that I can’t do it myself. He rushes inside to the duty-free shops to get me better clothes and a coat and shoes.
    “I shall be as quick as I possibly can,” he assures me. “Huddle down by the tire. Make your body a ball. It will help.”
    Our cell phones, our suitcases, our bags are still at the hotel and our flight doesn’t leave until morning, but we’ve decided the airport is the safest possible place. It’s full of people. It’s warm.
    “What about our passports?” I ask.
    “I have them on me. I have kept them on me the entire trip. I am paranoid about passports.”
    “Good thing.”
    His eyes are so sad. “Yes. Good thing.”
    He leaves and a plane rumbles above me as I wait. I push my back against the tire, not wanting anything to sneak up on me. I’m so tired, but it isn’t until we’re inside and I’m dressed and my shoulder is bandaged that I fall asleep, in one of the airport chairs. Astley’s arm is wrapped around my shoulder for warmth or reassurance or