Wynter's Horizon (33 page)

I jumped to my feet and saw them, half my crew from Colombia—and a woman just behind them. I blinked and blinked again. Deep copper-colored hair spilled down her back and out around her face in rippling waves. Lilly.
What the hell was she doing here?

***

For all her craziness, Lilly had planned her revenge well. Not for me, a quick, painless demise. Furniture splintering, bones cracking, we careened from one room to another, destroying my house before their numbers won out. I struggled vainly, fighting even from my knees, but they eventually subdued me.

“Hold him,” Lilly yelled, her voice deep and scratchy, like she had a permanent case of laryngitis. She’d always had a great voice.

“Lilly. What are you doing here?” I coughed then, the pain from my ribs radiating throughout. She yanked my arm out and stuck something in it. Fuck. The room pitched and my vision wavered. Why did people feel the need to drug me?

“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

“You left me there. They locked me up for years in that hospital, and you, you didn’t do a thing.” My mind tripped backward. I could see Lilly as she was then, twenty and beautiful, smiling at me as the door closed. Before I ran off and spilled my guts over her plan, betraying her and what we had. I had never searched for her afterwards, never went to visit her, the guilt overwhelming me.

Something sharp dug into my other arm. “What about us, you bastard? You left us in Colombia.”

I pried my eyes open. Miguel’s face came into focus and then faded.

“You bastard, we were waiting for you in the mountains. You never came back.”

“They took me.” My tongue felt fat and swollen. “What did you give me?”

Lilly laughed viciously. “You’re going to take a nice little trip down memory lane. And at the end of it, you can jump into Hell.”

They dragged me out then like a dead animal, my feet bumping down the porch stairs. Abandoning me in the middle of the field, as far from anything as possible, they walked away laughing.

“Well, this isn’t good.” A familiar voice.

I opened my eyes. Wheels stood next to me. I was on the beach again. I felt warm, flushed almost.

“Am I going to make it?”

Wheels smiled sadly at me. “I don’t know but you look like Hell.”

I lifted my arm and stared at it. There was a gaping hole in it that ran from my bicep down until my wrist. Blood poured from it. I heard a bell ringing.

“You should go back, Beck. I don’t think it’s your time yet.”

I looked at him, even as he started fading from view. “Wheels?”

“Go back, Beck. Listen to the bell.”

Chapter Sixty-One

Wynter—Blood

I knocked on the door urgently. I hadn’t heard from him since I’d gotten that dropped-message on my voicemail—and not since I had called Quinn—scared as hell and
knowing
something was wrong. I put my ear to the door, contemplating whether to walk in or go around to the porch if no one answered.

“Beck? Quinn?” Nothing. I banged harder. “Beck? Are you in there? Let me in.”

I pounded with both fists now, trying to see through the shutters on the window. “I want to know what’s going on. Let me in.” I sounded hysterical, I knew. I tried the handle. Locked. The cold in my stomach turned to an absolute pit. Abandoning the front door, I ran around to the deck. The snow was higher here. Shit. It fell over the edge of my ankle high hiking boots, melting in my socks. I could see footsteps in the snow, weaving back and forth toward the deck. I headed for the side door.

It was open. I stepped in. The room was in shambles, the table broken, cabinets ajar. I pushed a broken chair out of the way with my foot.
Fuck, what happened here?
Something came from the other direction. I whipped my head around but too late. My legs left the ground, and I was flying. Pain radiated as I collided with the pantry door. I sucked in a breath, trying to replace the air that had been pushed out. Kicking furiously, I scrambled up, grabbing the edge of the counter for leverage. He was up, too, staring at me, swaying slightly, hair stuck up in all directions, and blood covering his face. His t-shirt clung to him in places, drenched through with sweat and stained red. One eye was nearly swollen shut. The other, bloodshot, roved the room crazily. Balling his hands into fists, he started for me again.
Holy fuck!

“Beck.” I called to him, gasping for breath. “Beck. It’s me, Wynter.” He stopped and stared at me blankly. My stomach dropped into my toes, and my heart took off at a sprint. Something had happened, and, whatever it was, it was fucked.

“Beck. Beck. It’s me.” He shook his head once. A flicker of hope surged within me. I could do this. I could make him see me; I could make things okay.

“Do you think you’re going to torture me again?” He took a step forward.

Maybe not. I glanced toward the door to his left. I needed an escape plan. Think. Think. My mind felt like it was filled with quicksand. I felt along the counter, staring at him and slowly moving backward. Inch by inch. He stood between me and the door to the living room and my car. I just needed to get past. But he was quicker and stronger. He took another step, swaying as he did. The side door was still open, but there was nothing that way but an open field and the woods. Fast as I was, I knew I couldn’t outrace him, even in his current condition.

“Beck. I don’t know who you think I am but it’s Wynter. Remember me?” My voice shook so hard I could hardly get the words out. What was wrong with him? “I’m the one you sit in the tree with; we walk on the beach. We run together. And we stay up all night talking.” I tried to smile. My fingers brushed against something. I felt around frantically while still talking to him. Wooden block. Knife holder. I fumbled a bit for the handle. Quiet. Quiet. Slowly, I pulled it out, tucking it into my hand. God help me.

I stared at the space between Beck and the door. Abby’s voice filled my ear.
The best thing about Wyn is that, just when you think she’s going left, she ducks right and gets open.
It was one of the only compliments she gave me. The moments ticked by. I could feel the sweat beading on my lip despite the cold air blowing through the side door. Beck’s breathing, labored and angry, filled the room.

“Beck. Please.”

“I’m going to kill you, you mother fucker.” His voice, hoarse and deep was layered with hatred. I wanted to close my eyes and hold my ears. Oh God. Clearly it wasn’t me he saw. He tensed, crouching a bit. I tightened my grip on the knife. As he jumped, I ducked right. Springing with everything I had, I made for the opening. I passed through the doorway, lungs bursting with the effort. Something brushed me. Fingers. Almost there. Almost. The living room was destroyed. I tumbled forward as my foot caught on a broken chair on the ground. I threw my hands up to stop my rush, sliding along the wooden floor. My knuckles scraped the ground, the knife still clutched in my fist. Glass. Everywhere. Broken shards. I could hear him behind me. I scrambled up again. Fast but not fast enough. He tackled me from behind, and we crashed into something wooden.
Fuck! My side
! His hands fitted around my throat. I gulped and found nothing. Black points danced in front of my eyes. Swinging wildly with my knife hand, I connected with flesh. He screamed, and the pressure lifted from my neck. Sobbing, I hurled myself forward again, eyes set on the front door.

Just a few more feet. My head yanked backward, nearly lifting me off the ground. Pain seared through my scalp.

“No!” I cried out. He pulled me against him, hand against my mouth. The sharp edge of the knife on my throat. I wriggled desperately. His hand slipped. I bit down hard, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I didn’t let go, swallowing blindly, teeth clenched. He screamed. Loosening his grip on my hair, he slapped me hard. I fell to my knees as pain, white hot, exploded above my cheek and through my head. He jerked his hand free.

“You son of a bitch, Colombian.” He tightened his hold on my hair again, lifting me. Blood dripped down his arm. My palms ached. I turned over my hands. Glass bits glittered, embedded in the skin. Twisting my hair, he pulled until my head came back. The tears flowed freely then.

“Please. Please don’t, Beck,” I whispered. The knife pressed deeper.

“How do you know my name?”

I couldn’t answer.

“Tell me.” He pressed harder.

“Your guy, your Colombian guy. He didn’t have long hair.” It was all I could think of. Something slid down my neck. My plastic necklace. I loved to wear it and hear him make fun of me for how ugly it was. It dropped on the floor, pinging slightly. His grip loosened, the knife dragging downward, scratching but no longer pressed against me. Something crashed behind us. He whirled unsteadily, releasing me. I stumbled forward. Quinn came from the kitchen.

“Hey, buddy,” he called, swinging as he did so. He connected, and Beck crumpled to the ground.

I met Quinn’s eyes just before the black took over.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Beck—Survival

Lavender. I smelled lavender—and something else I couldn’t quite place. I opened my eyes slowly. I felt sore all over, like the time in Turkey. Miguel. Miguel was here and Lilly. I jerked, trying to sit up. Sharp pain ran through my side.

“Easy, Beck. You’ve got some broken ribs.” Sara placed a hand on my shoulder pushing me back down. I tried to fight her but it was useless. I felt like a tenderized piece of meat.

“Where are they?”

“Who?”

The room was dark. Shades pulled down. A few candles were lit.

“Miguel. Lilly. Sanchez. Watson.” My head pounded. “God, my head hurts.” I balled my hand into a fist, “and my hand.”

“That’s from me, Buddy.” Quinn stood in the doorway.

“What happened?” I had a memory of being outside.

Quinn lifted something off the dresser. A hypodermic.

“Apparently, your old friends thought it might be nice to send you on a trip.”

I looked at Sara, ignoring the pain that shot through my skull.

“Some kind of opiate,” she explained. “Did the trick. Sent you on quite a
n adventure. You thought you were back in Colombia.”

I closed my eyes, racking my brain for focus. “There was snow and cold. And El Teniente. He was here. I fought him.”

Quinn grimaced. “That’s what you thought. But it wasn’t him.” He paused.

I stared at him. He had no bruises or bandages. Clearly, I hadn’t fought him. .

“Who was it Quinn?”

Blue eyes stared back at me.

“Quinn?” I clenched my fists, sitting up quickly, ignoring another stab of pain. “Quinn?”

“It was Wynter.”

Oh God. “Did … I … kill her?”

He shook his head and glanced at Sara.

“How bad?”

“She has some broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, needs some blood, and they stitched up her throat, but, overall, she should be fine. They said she may spend a night or two in the hospital. Just for observation.”

Sara smiled. “Quinn told them she got attacked by a dog. They believed him.”

The phone rang, and Quinn left to get it. I fell back on the bed. I wondered what Wynter thought now. She had finally glimpsed the real me. She had always seen the strength, the improved perceptions and agility, but never the real killer that lived within me. Now, she understood what it could do and had felt it firsthand as I went crazy.

I thought of my feeble attempt to push her away on Sunday. I had achieved that today in half the time.

I couldn’t look at Sara, just kept my gaze pinned on the ceiling, memorizing the cracks between the boards. Anything to keep from going crazy.

“We gave you something to get it out of your system. I think they meant for you to overdose after it was done tripping you out. But they misjudged the dose. They supersized it but not enough.” she explained quietly.

“Yeah.” I couldn’t finish, thinking of Wynter. An image of her running through the house filled my mind. I had hunted her like an animal.

“She’ll be okay, Beck.” She motioned to my bandaged hand. “Bit the hell out of your hand. I had to sew it up.”

I nodded, looking at the bandage. I folded and unfolded my fingers. They were stiff, the cut hurt, but I had done a lot worse to her. I lifted myself up, unsteady but still able to rise. There were things to do. I leaned against the wall, trying to gather more strength. Sara watched me. I wondered what she was thinking.

I pushed off the wall and stood. My legs worked somewhat. I headed for the kitchen. I had one goal now—find the bastards that did this and kill them.

Wynter would be okay, and when she got out, I would be long gone.

***

By nightfall, I felt better, physically. I didn’t have my full strength, but it would come with time. That was the benefit of having extra healing powers.

Quinn waited with me at the window as we watched the lengthening shadows.

“Are you going to see her first?”

“No. I think I’ve done enough, don’t you? I almost killed her.”

“I think you should go.”