City of the Lost (40 page)

I pull back. “No, Eric.”

He doesn’t seem to notice, just pulls me to him again, pushing between my legs as he flips open the button on his—

“No, Eric.” I put my hand on his chest and push him. “Stop.”

He blinks. Then he pulls back, sucking in breath, and before I can even catch a glimpse of his expression, he steps away, letting me drop, and then turns and strides off.

Dalton storms off and leaves me struggling to get my jeans on, and I feel like I’m back in tenth grade, kissing Matthew McCormack behind the school when his hands slide under my shirt and I push them out, and he takes off in a snit, never to speak to me again. Which is understandable at sixteen. It is not understandable at thirty, and as I watch Dalton walk away without a backward glance, I slam my fist into the tree, which is absolutely the stupidest thing I could have done, and I bite my lip to keep from yowling.

I cradle my hand, eyes closed, rage and frustration whipping through me so hard the pain almost feels good.

Damn him. God-fucking-damn him. And damn me, too, for not stopping him the moment he pushed me against that tree.

If you didn’t want it, asshole, why did you start it? Start it and then tell me twice you didn’t want to, like I’m a witch who cast a spell over you? Sweetest damn thing a guy has ever said to me.

I’m going to fuck you, but I really, really don’t want to.

I almost slam my fist into the tree again. I settle for stomping the ground, and not caring if I look like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. I
should
throw a tantrum. My life needs more of them. More? Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I lost my temper, and God knows I have good reason.

Everything that brought me here was a lie. When Diana refused to go to the hospital, I felt so bad, so fucking bad for her. She was so beaten down and yet so strong. Strength? Bullshit. It was lies. Lies so she could be with that sadistic bastard.

She brought me here for the same damned reason as always. I was her rock. The dependable friend who would be there for her no matter what. Time to go to college? Find one near Casey, so you don’t need to be alone. Can’t shake your ex? Convince Casey to move to a new city with you. Need to escape after stealing a million dollars? Run far, far away … but don’t forget to take Casey. Diana’s security blanket. Diana’s guard dog.

I take a deep breath and look at the path. I don’t want to go back to Rockton. Not yet. I want to do exactly what Dalton is doing. Walk it off out here, in the stillness and the silence, where no one can interrupt and say, “Hey, what’s wrong?” and force me to put on a happy face. I’m hurt and I’m angry and I want to indulge that. For once, I want to indulge that.

I consider searching for the ATV keys, but I’m not even sure where I threw them. I still can’t believe I did that. Completely irresponsible. And I don’t regret it for a second. Fuck all this. I’m going to start being a little irresponsible and immature. I’ve earned it.

That does not mean I stalk off the path. Nor do I head
away
from town. I’m being reckless, not stupid. Yet I get barely twenty steps along the trail before I see Dalton in the distance, just standing there with his back to me.

I’m cutting across to avoid him, and I know exactly where I’m heading—I’m on the proper angle—when I hear a twig crack behind me. I turn and see a distant figure. It goes still, mostly hidden behind a tree, but I recognize the build and the height and the glimpse of dark blond hair. Dalton.

Asshole.

Yes, following me when I’ve wandered from the trail does not make him an asshole. Under any other circumstances, it’d be a considerate thing to do. But in this mood, I resent the implication that I can’t handle this on my own and change direction, planning to stay off-path a little longer.

Am I hoping to provoke him? Bring him over here, snarling and snapping? Yep, because I’m in the mood to snarl and snap back. When I do immature, I don’t do it by halves.

Except there is a reason I don’t do immature and irresponsible. Because eventually it does cross the line into reckless and stupid. I’m so focused on goading Dalton by staying off-path that I’m not paying nearly enough attention to where I’m going. Then I stop catching those distant glimpses of him, and I’m sure he’s sneaking up—I even hear twigs and needles crackle nearby—so I pick up my pace, weaving through the forest, hell-bent on annoying the shit out of him.

That’s when the noises stop, and they stay stopped, and I walk for a few minutes more before I realize Dalton’s not there. I lean against a tree, waiting for him to catch up. Only he doesn’t, and the woods are silent, and I’m alone.

I head off in the direction that I’m sure will take me toward town. After about ten minutes the terrain changes, growing rockier, which means I’m nowhere near Rockton. That’s when I realize I’m lost.

I mentally call myself a whole lot of nasty names, but I don’t panic. I retrace my steps. Just get back on the path. The problem? I’d been so intent on luring Dalton out that I’d paid little attention to my surroundings, and I have no idea if I’m actually retracing my steps.

Still, I try to be smart about it. I use the tricks Dalton taught me for tracking—broken twigs, impressions in the soft earth, scuff marks in the rocky dirt. I find deer tracks and tufts of fur and that’s it, and I have no idea—

I spot Dalton. He’s twenty feet away, in the shade, and all I can see is the dark jacket and the colour of his hair. Then he pulls back a little, as if realizing I’m watching, and I see his profile—the set of his jaw, the shape of his nose.

I take a deep breath. Then I abandon my pride and call, “Eric?”

No answer.

I start toward him. “Okay, maybe you provoked me, but yes, taking off was stupid. I’ve gotten turned around, and I have no idea where I am.”

Silence.

I keep walking. “You can chew me out later. I deserve it. For now, let’s just get back to town. We’ve had a shitty day, and we’re both out of sorts and making stupid choices. So let’s just—”

I round the two trees … and he’s not there.

“Eric?”

I hear a twig crack one second too late. Hands grab me from behind, one around my waist, the other gripping my chin, as if ready to snap my neck. A body presses against my back and … the smell. God, the smell.

The hands wrench me around, shoving me back against a tree. The cold of a blade presses against my throat, and when I look up at my captor, I see …

Dalton. I see Dalton. His steel-grey eyes. His nose. His jawline. But the dark blond hair falls to his shoulders. A beard covers his cheeks and chin. Yet it still looks like Dalton, and with that I have my answer. I know what’s going on, what’s been going on since last night, when we were on my balcony, watching the northern lights as Dalton told me a story about a fox.

I’m sleeping. I fell asleep on that balcony, and everything that’s happened since—Mick’s death, the fire, Diana’s betrayal, Dalton’s kiss—it’s dream and nightmare woven into one, and this is proof of it.

But this man is not Dalton. I see that now, beyond the hair and beard. His eyes are set deeper. Shaped differently. His cheekbones aren’t as high or as prominent.

This man looks like him; this man is not him. That’s all that matters.

Yet it isn’t all that matters. There’s a knife to my throat and my hands are free and the gun is right there, under my open jacket, and I know, beyond doubt, that I could shoot this man before he slits my throat. But I don’t, because the man with the knife to my throat may not be Dalton, but he’s related to him.

That’s when I see his jacket. A dark military-style coat.

“Jacob,” I whisper.

“You know who I am? Good.” His voice is rough, the words slightly off, with an odd accent. “I know who you are. Eric’s girl.”

“I work with Eric. In Rockton. I’m not his—”

The knife presses in. I struggle to control my breathing.

“I saw you kissing him,” he says. “I’ve seen you before. Together. You’re Eric’s girl. I owe my brother. Now I can repay him.”

Brother? Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I can hear Dalton’s voice talking about Jacob. Telling me he’s harmless. Absolutely harmless, he emphasized.

Dalton wouldn’t lie about that. Nor would he leave his brother wandering out here in this condition.

I’m dreaming. I must be.

Jacob pulls back the knife, and I don’t process the move. Don’t wonder what he’s doing. My gut foresees the strike, and the moment he moves, my fist hits his gut and my other hand grabs my gun.

He falls back, and I kick him away, and I don’t shoot. My brain assesses the threat and I do not see the need to fire. There’s a moment of relief, as if I’ve passed some test I was certain I’d fail. It only lasts a moment, because my kick isn’t enough to knock him to the ground, and he’s coming back up, knife slashing for my arm as I swing the gun at him.

Footsteps thunder behind me, and I instinctively twist, expecting attack from the rear.

“Jacob, no!”

It’s Dalton, running for us. The distraction slows my strike, just for that heartbeat, and the knife slashes my arm. My gun still makes contact, but his attack has knocked mine into a glancing blow, and he only staggers back.

Jacob lunges at me, and I can’t fire—the angle is wrong. I kick instead and my foot connects. So does his knife, slashing my leg. We both go down. I bounce back, gun swinging up, but he’s already in flight, stabbing me in the chest. Then he flies back, the knife coming free as Dalton throws him aside.

“Stop,” Dalton says, gun raised, as Jacob tries to rise.

Jacob sees the gun. “You gonna shoot me, big brother?” He pulls his jacket open. “Go ahead. Can’t be any worse than what you’ve done. Have you told her about that? Your girl there?”

“She isn’t my—”

“She already tried that. I saw you kiss her. And now I know how to pay you back, brother.”

“Pay me back? What the hell is going on, Jacob?”

“I’ve finally figured out exactly what you did to me.” He starts walking backward. “I’m going to repay you, and if you want to stop me, you’d better pull that trigger.”

Dalton’s fingers flex, and I know he’s thinking fast, thinking of what else he can do to stop Jacob, because he can’t shoot him, not his brother. But if he lets him walk away and he attacks someone else?

I stumble backward and fall, gasping, hand clapped over my chest wound. Jacob takes off as Dalton runs to my side. Yes, I faked the fall, but when I try to rise again, blood gushes between my fingers and pain rips through me. Dalton yanks off his jacket and pushes it against the wound, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. It’ll be okay. Everything will be—”

“Radio,” I manage, and he curses at needing the reminder. He
did
bring it—like me, he doesn’t cross the line between reckless and stupid. He calls Anders. When there’s no answer, his eyes widen, as he frantically pushes the Call button. Then we hear the hum of an ATV.

“I can … I can walk,” I say, but he picks me up, pressing my hand against the jacket to hold it to my chest wound, and I feel blood rushing from my arm and my leg, but I say nothing, because he’s already panicked enough, apologies rushing out on an endless loop of “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.”

He runs, carrying me, as fast as he can manage. When he stumbles and I gasp, he slows, but that only makes the apologies come faster, and I tell him I’m okay, even though I know I’m not, the blood streaming, consciousness fading, my body shaking. I tell him anyway—
I’m fine, just fine
—and he keeps running until he staggers right in front of the ATV. Anders shouts, “Shit!” and brakes so fast he nearly vaults over the front.

As soon as the ATV stops, Dalton races over and lays me in the back seat.

“Holy shit,” Anders says. “What—?”

“Gotta get her back. Now.”

“She’s bleeding, Eric.”

“I know!” Dalton snaps, and tries to shove Anders into the passenger seat, but the deputy pushes back, saying, “I mean that we need to staunch the bleeding first,” and from the look on Dalton’s face, you’d think I’d already bled out and it was all his fault. Curses and more apologies as he helps Anders get me out onto the ground.

“I’ve got this,” Anders says.

“No, I—”

Anders holds him back, saying, “I’ve got it. You want to help? Give me your belt, your shirt…”

Dalton strips them off as Anders’s gaze runs over me, assessing.

“Left thigh, right arm, upper right chest,” I say.

“You’re still with us,” he says.

I nod. “Conserving energy. Chest worst. Didn’t go in deep. Just…” I hiss in pain as I inhale.

“Relax and let me look.”

I lie back. Dalton’s tearing his shirt into strips as Anders pushes mine up over my ribs.

“There’s water in the back,” he says. “Eric—”

“Got it.”

“Can I ask what the hell happened?”

Dalton hesitates. “It’s my fault. I—”

“We got separated,” I say. “I was attacked by a hostile.”

“Shit. This close to town? We need to do something about them,” Anders says grimly. “And we might need to reconsider the possibility our killer isn’t from Rockton after all.”

Dalton falters, the guilt and fear so strong it seems to paralyze him, as if he’s back in that moment, facing his brother.

Facing his
brother
.

I haven’t had time to make sense of that. I still don’t. I only know that something is wrong with Jacob. Whatever Jacob says, Dalton’s sin against him cannot warrant this level of vengeance. It just can’t.

“Eric?” I say, and he snaps out of it, mumbling more apologies as he hurries over with the water.

Anders cleans and binds my wounds as best he can. With every light-headed dip toward darkness, I shake myself back, and I manage to stay conscious until they load me into the ATV. Then I lose the battle.

I wake in bed. My bed. Beth is checking one of my dressings. Dalton’s sitting on a chair he’s carried up from downstairs. He’s lost in thought, startled when I croak, “How bad is it?”

“Could have been worse,” Beth says.

I chuckle, which sends pain stabbing through me. “Damage report?”