for reinforcements?
The hellions would have made it out the window if the first hadn’t shoved the second out of the way into the curtains, causing the second to grab the first in its panic.
As they jockey for position, Raffe slices through the one jumping out the window, cutting it almost in half. Then he cuts the second one, slicing its throat.
Raffe looks out the window, making sure these two are the only hellions.
He staggers onto the bed and winces in pain, bending over to catch his breath. The bandages on his back bloom with dark blood stains where his wings used to be.
He had only just awakened from his healing sleep a few hours before and this has been his third fight since then. Once with me, once with the street gang that broke into our office building, and now with these creepy things. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for him. It’s one thing to be cut off from your pack and surrounded by enemies, but to be gravely injured on top of that must be the loneliest feeling in the world.
He wipes his blade on the bedding, lovingly polishing it with the sheet. The creatures finally end their death throes as he leaves.
Amazingly, I’m still asleep back in the living room. Of course, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days and I was practically unconscious from exhaustion. My body is shivering on the couch. The cold seeped in while the bedroom door was open.
Raffe pauses and leans against the sofa, catching his breath.
I whimper in my sleep, trembling below him.
What’s he thinking?
That if any of the hellions are watching, it won’t make a difference whether we lie on different couches or the same one? Or that I’m already doomed because I’ve been in his company for too long?
I whimper again, pulling my knees to my chest under the thin blanket.
He leans over and whispers, “Hush. Shhh.”
Maybe he just needs to feel the warmth of another living being after going through such a traumatic amputation. Maybe he’s too exhausted to care if I’m a Daughter of Man, as weird and barbaric as the Watchers’ wives.
Whatever the reason, he reluctantly pulls the cushions from the back of my couch. He pauses, looking like he’s about to change his mind.
Then he slides in behind me.
At first, his hold is stiff and uncomfortable. But as he begins to relax, the tension in his face eases.
He strokes my hair and whispers, “Shhh.”
Whatever comfort he’s giving me, I’m giving at least that much back just by being a warm body for him to hold at a time when he needs it most.
I snuggle closer to him in my sleep and my whimpering subsides to a contented sigh. It almost hurts to see Raffe closing his eyes and holding me the way a kid might hold a stuffed animal for comfort.
I reach out my phantom hand to stroke his face. But of course, I can’t feel him. I can only feel what the sword remembers.
I run my hand along the lines of his neck and the muscles of his shoulder, anyway.
Imagining the smooth warmth of him.
Remembering the feeling of being held in his arms.
I T ’ S DARK when I wake. I float back into reality, still mired in my dream.
I stroke the soft fur of the teddy bear. My dream had more comfort in it than a fighting lesson has any right to have. It’s as if the sword picked a soothing memory on purpose and I’m grateful.
It takes a minute before I remember why I’m sleeping in the backseat of a car.
Right. We’re prisoners in a police cruiser.
Then the rest of it floods back and I’m wishing I could return to my dream.
Outside, hulks of cars dot the roadway and moon shadows of branches shift back and forth in the wind. Like many places, the streets turn surreal and creepy at night.
Something moves outside the window.
Before I can identify the shadow, it taps on the window.
I yelp.
Silently, my mother clutches my arm, urgently dragging me down into the footwell with her.
“It’s me, Clara,” whispers the shadow.
A key turns and the driver’s door opens.
The hellions would have made it out the window if the first hadn’t shoved the second out of the way into the curtains, causing the second to grab the first in its panic.
As they jockey for position, Raffe slices through the one jumping out the window, cutting it almost in half. Then he cuts the second one, slicing its throat.
Raffe looks out the window, making sure these two are the only hellions.
He staggers onto the bed and winces in pain, bending over to catch his breath. The bandages on his back bloom with dark blood stains where his wings used to be.
He had only just awakened from his healing sleep a few hours before and this has been his third fight since then. Once with me, once with the street gang that broke into our office building, and now with these creepy things. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for him. It’s one thing to be cut off from your pack and surrounded by enemies, but to be gravely injured on top of that must be the loneliest feeling in the world.
He wipes his blade on the bedding, lovingly polishing it with the sheet. The creatures finally end their death throes as he leaves.
Amazingly, I’m still asleep back in the living room. Of course, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days and I was practically unconscious from exhaustion. My body is shivering on the couch. The cold seeped in while the bedroom door was open.
Raffe pauses and leans against the sofa, catching his breath.
I whimper in my sleep, trembling below him.
What’s he thinking?
That if any of the hellions are watching, it won’t make a difference whether we lie on different couches or the same one? Or that I’m already doomed because I’ve been in his company for too long?
I whimper again, pulling my knees to my chest under the thin blanket.
He leans over and whispers, “Hush. Shhh.”
Maybe he just needs to feel the warmth of another living being after going through such a traumatic amputation. Maybe he’s too exhausted to care if I’m a Daughter of Man, as weird and barbaric as the Watchers’ wives.
Whatever the reason, he reluctantly pulls the cushions from the back of my couch. He pauses, looking like he’s about to change his mind.
Then he slides in behind me.
At first, his hold is stiff and uncomfortable. But as he begins to relax, the tension in his face eases.
He strokes my hair and whispers, “Shhh.”
Whatever comfort he’s giving me, I’m giving at least that much back just by being a warm body for him to hold at a time when he needs it most.
I snuggle closer to him in my sleep and my whimpering subsides to a contented sigh. It almost hurts to see Raffe closing his eyes and holding me the way a kid might hold a stuffed animal for comfort.
I reach out my phantom hand to stroke his face. But of course, I can’t feel him. I can only feel what the sword remembers.
I run my hand along the lines of his neck and the muscles of his shoulder, anyway.
Imagining the smooth warmth of him.
Remembering the feeling of being held in his arms.
I T ’ S DARK when I wake. I float back into reality, still mired in my dream.
I stroke the soft fur of the teddy bear. My dream had more comfort in it than a fighting lesson has any right to have. It’s as if the sword picked a soothing memory on purpose and I’m grateful.
It takes a minute before I remember why I’m sleeping in the backseat of a car.
Right. We’re prisoners in a police cruiser.
Then the rest of it floods back and I’m wishing I could return to my dream.
Outside, hulks of cars dot the roadway and moon shadows of branches shift back and forth in the wind. Like many places, the streets turn surreal and creepy at night.
Something moves outside the window.
Before I can identify the shadow, it taps on the window.
I yelp.
Silently, my mother clutches my arm, urgently dragging me down into the footwell with her.
“It’s me, Clara,” whispers the shadow.
A key turns and the driver’s door opens.
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