Page 4 of A Shadow of Betrayal

Suddenly the man's eyes spring open, his hand shooting out and wrapping around my neck and squeezing with a strength that shouldn't be possible in his weak physical state. I squeak in surprise, my eyes widening as I bring my hands up to grip the big hand that fully encompasses my throat, blocking all my oxygen.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, his voice gravelly and hoarse as his dark, green eyes search my face. They flick from my eyes to my lips, then down my body, checking for anything that may hurt him as I desperately yank at his hand, trying to draw a breath into my burning lungs. “Who. Are. You?” he demands again in a clipped voice, and I swear to God, if he wasn't already half dead, I would knee him in the balls.

How does he expect me to answer him when I can't breathe?

His fingers dig into the sides of my neck, and I can feel the crescent shape of his nails sting as they puncture my sensitive skin. “Mey-er,” I manage to gasp out, my vision going spotty as he glares up at me.

“Meyer?” he questions, his fingers slowly releasing me, one by one, as blessed oxygen rushes through my body, and I gasp with panting breaths. Falling onto my hands I glare daggers at the man as he pulls his hand away from me. “Where does your allegiance lie, Meyer?”

“What?” I hiss at him, still pissed that he tried to strangle me when I just saved his ass.

“Who do you fight for?” he growls out, closing his eyes as he grimaces in pain, his hand moving down to where the rags cover his bleeding wounds.

“Don't touch,” I snap, grabbing his hand to keep it away from his injured stomach. “You're hurt, and I’m trying to help, so could you maybe…” I shrug my shoulders when his green eyes dart open, and he glares at where my hand grabbed his. I drop it, and it falls to the ground, his strength giving out. “Not be a dick?” I finally say.

The man quirks a dark brow in my direction at my word choice, and I glare at him, bringing my hand up to rub at my sore throat. The shadows under his eyes look so dark that my worry comes back in full force. “And please don’t die here. The Sheriff will love that crap, and I’ll end up in jail or something,” I mutter, grabbing my phone to check the signal.

I throw a look at the locked door, the only thing separating us from the rainstorm and nightmares that haunt the night, and grimace. I need to get him help.

“I'll do my best,” he says dryly, his eyes closing in pain as he moans when he shifts his hips on the wood floor. Ruby red blood floods the rags at his movements, and I curse, grabbing a few more to add to the pile.

“Stop moving,” I demand, pressing down on his stomach and drawing a hoarse cry from between his lips.

“Where is your Umbra Unit?” the man asks in a strained voice, his eyes clenching shut as his hands ball into fists at his side, knuckles turning white.

“My what?”

“Your… Umbra… Unit…” he says between clenched teeth, and I shake my head.

“I have no idea what that is,” I tell him, looking at my phone in hopes it will magically start working. I typically have a signal here, but this storm must have knocked out a tower or something. Glancing back down at the man under my hands, I can't help but notice again how handsome he is. He's probably in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, and has a dark, close-cut beard that covers his square jaw. His broad shoulders are muscled and wide, leading down to a trim waist and tree trunk-sized thighs. A large tattoo that seems to be made up of runes of some sort covers his entire right shoulder, starting on his forearm and ending at his thick neck.

The man's eyes spring open in shock, and his brow furrows. “But you can see them,” he manages to whisper, and I tip my head to the side.

Huh?

Wait… can he see the shadow monsters, too?

“See what?” I ask, my voice rough and demanding as hope surges through me. Maybe I’m not crazy? Maybe there is another person like me that can see the creatures that linger everywhere. The man’s eyes flicker, his skin pale and clammy as they close, and I shake my head.

“Wait! No, you can’t die. I’m going to go get help!” I reassure him, and he grunts in response. “Keep pressure on your stomach,” I command, rushing over and grabbing the old whiskey bottle that has been sitting there for way too long. “Here, drink this if you need something,” I tell him, setting the bottle down on the floor. It's what Grandpa used whenever I had to stitch him up. Unfortunately, the only other thing I have is ibuprofen, which will not help here. I move to jump to my feet, and his hand darts out and grabs my own, his fingers cold and trembling.

“Thank you, Meyer,” he breathes, his eyes cracked just a sliver to look up at me. I nod and squeeze his hand in return.

“Just, don't die. Okay...” I trail off when I realize I don't know his name.

“Creed, my name… is Creed,” he whispers before his hand falls from mine, thumping onto his chest.

“Right, Creed. No dying in my house, or I’ll kick your ass,” I mutter, darting to grab my phone and tucking it into my pants pocket before rushing to grab the last two knives off the counter. Creed chuckles a little, then moans at the effort as I run across the living room to grab my coat hanging next to the door.

“I’ll be back as fast as I can,” I reassure him as I unbolt several locks on the door, my hand pausing on the handle as I stare at him lying on my floor. Something pulls at my chest, and I hate the idea of leaving him here all alone, but if I don’t get help, he’ll die.

“Take your time,” he rasps from the ground, his hands moving to press at the wounds on his stomach, his dazed green eyes locked on my face. “Take your—Kalis. I spotted several Demons out there,” he murmurs between shuttering breaths.

“My what?” Holy shit, is this man losing his mind? And what the hell is a Kalis?

“Your—” Creed pauses and looks at me with his mouth open in shock. “Shit, you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Wait, Demons?” I whisper, looking at the door, then back to Creed, who is staring at me like I’m the crazy one here and not him. “Is that what those are?” I ask, my voice rising in volume as I speak. At Creed's nod, my mouth drops open, and I shake my head. “Demons?” I croak for a second time, and Creed wrinkles his nose up like he's not sure what else to say. I want to ask him more questions, to get every little detail this man has in his head, but I don't have time for that.

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