Fracture (20 page)

     “Nora?” Zlata’s standing wide-eyed in the entrance to the kitchen, a mug cupped in her hands. “You are okay?”

     “
Are
you okay,” I correct, “and yeah, I’m fine.” Good thing she’s not close enough to hear my heart slamming against my ribs, doing its best to break free of its cage. I point at the mug.  “What’s that, and is there more?” 

     “Greedy.” Mila pokes her head out of the kitchen. “It is for you. Zlata was coming to wake you. It is almost time to go, yes?”

     Unexpected tears prick my eyes, my throat tightening. “Yeah. I think so.” I’m going to miss them. I’ll miss what I could have had if I’d only tried. But grief does funny things to people. It took two years of my life, and regretting it now won’t do any good. All I can do is get out and hope they survive, so we can meet again.

     Somewhere else. Because I there is no way in hell I'll return to this city.

     Zlata crosses the room and hands me the mug, a sad sort of knowing in her eyes. “You will be fine. We will be fine. Everyone will be fine.” Then her familiar sly smile blooms. “Next time we meet, Declan will not resist me. He gets a…what do you call it? A free pass.”

     I snort and bobble the mug. “So how many free passes has Ismael gotten then?”

     She scowls. “I have a new plan where he is concerned. Ignore him. He will come around.”

     “Good luck with that.” I’ve ignored Ismael on more than one occasion. It never bothers him. In fact, I swear he prefers it. I gulp down a mouthful of tea. “Ow. Fuck.” Setting the mug on the floor, I push to my feet. “Thanks for the tea, Mila, but if it’s as late as you say it is, I need to get going. I have a few things left to pack.” The small portion of Ryan’s ashes. The photo I rescued from our old flat. A couple of books.

     She pulls me into a hug, the embrace tight and strong and fierce. “We will see you soon. Email when you reach Ireland. Tell us about Declan’s home. And Declan.” She gives me a wicked grin.

     Zlata looks worried. “This is not smart. Letting you leave alone. We should go with you, yes?”

     “No, it’s fine. The fighting’s died down, hear?” There’s nothing but the normal noises coming from the street. No shouts, no guns. “It’s not far.” Neither sister looks convinced. They let me go after a few more goodbyes, and I check the street before I exit the building.

     I’ve gone three blocks when I run into Cristian.

     “Nora.” His charm is gone. It’s been replaced by a coolness. Some rifle–looking thing is strapped to his back, and he’s wearing black combat boots laced over heavy black cargos. “You should not be on the streets. Especially if you do not wish to pick a side.”

     “I don’t.” In a fit of inspiration, I grab his hand. “I can’t choose. I just need to get inside. Will you take me home?” A soldier with a gun will keep the errant bullets away, right?

     His gaze travels down, then up, then over my shoulder. “Come. But keep up.” He takes off at a brisk jog, boots beating a heavy tattoo on the pavement. I scramble to catch up.

     We jog at a fast clip past the shops and flats that have been my home for the last two years, the grey and brown stones unwelcoming, yet comforting. There’s been little destruction so far in this part. You’d think it was almost normal.

     Almost. The soldier running next to me is not part of the normal.

     I point out my flat on the opposite side of the street and he gives a stiff nod, checking the street as we cross. Panting a little, I pull open the door to the building. “Thank you.”

     His expression is solemn, the cold soldier’s mask gone. “I would keep you safe. You are too…” He lifts a hand, trailing his fingers along my jaw. “…fragile. Too breakable to be in this war. You are deceptive, and that is why I knew people would tell you anything you wanted to know. You would be a good spy, Nora.”

     He’s right about the fragile and breakable part. One flick and I’ll fracture; another flick will widen the cracks and send me shattered to the ground.

     He kisses my forehead. That’s Declan’s spot. So what if he hasn’t marked it in a while. I suppress a shudder as I ease away, backing into the building and pulling the door shut.

     “Declan?” The living room is empty when I come in. He’d better be here. I don’t think his team will take me and not him, regardless of our marital status.

     Crap. Where did I put our marriage certificate?

     “Declan?” I poke my head into the bedroom. A dirty metal box sits in the middle of the bed, equally grubby clothing piled around it. What the hell is it, and why is it on my bed? Grumbling, I scoop up the filthy clothes and dump them on the floor, then reach for the box.

     “Careful with that.” He chuckles as I spin around. Black hair damp, water dripping onto his shoulders, he hobbles the short distance to the bed, one hand on the towel at his waist. “Didn’t think you’d want to leave without it.”

     Want to leave without—

     I suck in a breath. “What did you do?” My gaze drifts back to the metal box. It’s similar to the one holding Ryan’s ashes, only larger.

     Larger.

     “Don’t tell me you’re going to start screaming about desecrating a grave,” he mutters. He hands me the towel he’s wearing. “Here. Wrap it in that and pack it. We don’t have much time.”

     Ryan’s ashes. He dug up Ryan’s ashes. I don’t know whether to yell or cry.

     So I kiss him.

     He stiffens, probably from surprise, before he takes over the kiss, tongue darting out and demanding entry. Sinful, filthy, and all kinds of wrong, not the soft thank you I was going for. I no longer care. I want to climb all over him. Lick the drops of water from his shoulders, his chest, work my way down…

     Shit. He’s naked.

     He groans into my mouth and angles my head, deepening the kiss. A nip, a slide of his tongue, and I forget we’re supposed to be getting ready to leave and press closer. His hands slip under my sweater and inch it up up up.

     The pounding on the door halts his progress.

     Panting and half-dazed with desire, it takes a few moments for my brain to restart. Once it does, though, it doesn’t take nearly as long for me to jerk away and smooth my sweater into place. I hurry from the room, closing the door behind me and yank open the door to the flat just as Murat’s about to beat on it again.

     “Ready?”

     “Almost.” I head to the kitchen and pull the photo from the drawer, stuff it in the bag sitting on the couch, and slip into the bedroom to change my clothes. I don’t have time for a shower, which sucks.

     Declan’s wrapped the box and left it on the bed, and he’s stuffing clothes into his duffle. “They’re here?”

     “Murat is. Don’t know where Ismael is.” Stripping off my clothes, I dash into the bathroom and throw some water on my face, scrubbing down with a washcloth as best I can. Dammit, I wish Zlata had woken me earlier.

     I turn to go back to the bed and run into Declan. “Nora.” He tips my chin up. “We’re not done.”

     That kiss. Too much heat to let it just…go. Images of the two of us twined around each other dance through my mind. No, we’re not done.

     Having any sort of conversation about the state of our sexual relationship while I’m naked, he’s clothed, and we’re about to run through a city under siege shouldn’t be anywhere near my thoughts. The human brain prioritizes as it wants, though, and it’s decided that this conversation needs to happen. It’ll just have to wait.

     I push at his shoulders. “I need to get dressed.” He lets me by, but only barely, my body rubbing against his, his hands roaming over my naked flesh in an insanely proprietary manner. I pretend my skin doesn’t tingle all over and pull on my clothes, folding the ones I’d worn yesterday to toss in my bag. Gathering up the clothes and the towel-wrapped box, I march out into the living room and stuff everything inside, zipping the bag shut.

     Declan limps out with his duffle, and I sling one of his camera bags over my shoulder before picking up my own bag. The three of us troop down the stairs and out onto the street.

     A dark blue two–door stands at the curb.

     I’d been wondering how we were going to get to the pick-up spot. People still drive their cars, Mrs. Vucik’s aside. It's just more and more of them are ending up like hers — a heap of smoking, twisted metal.

     Ruminating over the car and where it came from involves time we don’t have. Murat takes our bags and starts fitting them into the miniscule trunk, and Declan stares at the car, then at his cast. Three tall men, one short woman, and a car not built for people over midget size. Grumbling, Declan climbs into the backseat and stretches his injured leg out as much as he can. The boot knocks up against the back of the passenger seat. “Nora, can you shove that forward?”

     I slide the seat forward and tip the back into place. With Declan’s leg, there’s room for three.

     “Not enough room.” Murat appears at my elbow and offers me a grin. “Ismael will drive you as close as he can get.”

     I’d thought I’d have a few more minutes with Murat. I’m not ready to say goodbye to the man who shared his home and his booze with me. His grin goes a little crooked, and I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze tight. “Thank you.”

     “You made life interesting. No thank you necessary.” But he hugs me back, and when he eases away his smile is a little sad. “We will see you again. You buy the vodka.”

     Choking out a laugh, I hug him one last time and climb into the passenger seat. He shuts the door and thumps the roof, which Ismael takes as his cue to start the car and drive off. The streets slip past, the sun shining on beaten–down buildings, civilians hurrying along the sidewalks. Over the dull roar of the engine I hear the familiar sounds of a firefight starting up, guns cracking, people shouting. A siren going off.

     Out in the open. A moving car, a moving target. There was fighting nearby, last night, bad enough and close enough we didn’t decamp for my flat. Where is it today? Is it sleeping, a dragon waiting to be woken with a fiery screech? I slump in the seat and twist my fingers together, trying to quell the rising shakes. I have no idea how close we are.

     Ismael whips the car around a corner. People are running through the intersection up ahead, and he rolls down his window as he slows to a stop. Shots fired, loud and clear. Smoke wafts through the window, and he curses. 

     “The fighting must be up ahead. We will have to go around.” Throwing the car into reverse, he executes a tight three point turn that has me scrabbling for the door handle. He speeds toward the street we’d turned off of.

     This happens more and more often the farther we go, the streets Ismael turns onto blocked off halfway down or leading us farther into the fighting. Dread pools in my stomach and forms a hard, heavy lump. The fighting’s getting worse. Ismael’s grip on the steering wheel is tight enough to snap it off, his curses becoming louder and longer.

     Another turn, another blocked street, and Ismael curses one last time before jerking the car into an alley. “Get out. This is as close as we can get. It should not be much farther.”

     My ass becomes cement. I can hear the screams from here, the small explosions and crack after crack of gun fire. Walk through that? Through hell? With violent projectiles flying in every direction? “No. Keep driving.”

     He grunts, opens his door, and hauls himself out of the car. Terror blooms as he stalks around the hood of the car and jerks open the passenger door. He unbuckles my seatbelt and yanks me out. “Walk. You want to get out. You walk. We can avoid more fighting this way than in a vehicle that is too big for certain spots.”

     He has a plan? A route? A safe route? I can’t stop trembling as I try to melt into the brick wall at my back, watching as Ismael helps Declan maneuver his way out of the back seat. Something blows up, a siren goes off, and the shouting gets louder.

     Someone shoves a bag into my hands. Declan. He cradles my head and forces me to meet his gaze. “We’ll be all right. Okay?”

     It’s not okay. It’s never okay. Looping the camera bag he hands me over my head, I grip my bag tight enough to cut off the circulation in my fingers and fall in behind Ismael.

     This is a place worse than hell.

     The fighting is near enough I can make out individual words. They must be commands for the rebels or the soldiers to follow. Flank out. Man down. Go. Go. Go. It doesn’t matter that I’m unable to understand what they’re saying. War is a universal language, and you don’t need a translator to know what’s being said. Kill or be killed, you idiot.

     Ismael inches out of the alley to check the street, and I edge back, thinking if I can get back to the car I can drive back to my flat. Declan wraps an arm around my waist from behind, and I stiffen. 

     “We’ll be fine.” His lips whisper over my ear. “He knows what he’s doing.”

     Right.

     He nudges me forward at a wave from Ismael. We creep across the street to the next alley, just as dark and narrow as the last. The sounds of the fight lessen as we hurry along, and I allow myself to relax slightly. Declan’s right. We’ll be fine.

     And we are fine. We’re fine as we walk as fast as Declan’s cast will allow, a straight shot through alleys. We’re fine as Ismael decides to take a chance and cut over a block, bringing us closer to our final destination. We’re fine right up until someone blows up a car fifty feet from us and the shrapnel and flames send us to the dirty sidewalk.

     Declan crawls over and covers my body with his, and I’m too limp from shock to protest his smothering weight. A second explosion rockets through the air. More shrapnel. More shouting. The air’s clogged and laden with smoke and burning fuel and rubber.

     My brain jumpstarts at the blood trickling from his temple. “You’re bleeding.”

     He smears it with his fingertips and curses. “We’ve got to move.” He rolls off me and struggles to his feet, stretching out a hand to help me to mine. “Ismael?”