Page 68 of A Bond with the Dark

Turning to look at Claire, she shrugs her shoulders, and I turn and watch the road.

Back at the hotel suite, Dominic carries Anna to her bed and lays her gently on top of the covers. We sit in the living room when he emerges, awaiting an explanation.

Remembering the large gash on his forehead, I dash to the kitchen to grab a towel. After wetting it with cold water, I return to the living room, where he sits silently with Claire, staring absentmindedly into the dark television on the wall.

When I sit down next to him, towel in hand, the large gash on his face has disappeared, and all that’s left is the remnants of blood.

I take in his bedraggled figure, his clothes soaked in blood, the wound that I’m sure was there but isn’t anymore.

“Don’t worry, it’s not my blood,” he answers my unspoken thoughts.

Maybe it’d been a play on the light when he had entered the car.

“Then whose blood is it?”

“Theirs.”

“Whose?”

“The ones who drugged the girl.”

“How did you know which one it was?”

“I just did.” He sits up, agitated. “Imma go take a shower.”

He walks off and leaves Claire and me alone in the room.

His demeanor is different. His gait, the way he moves, his energy, shit, even his eyes have changed. It’s like we’re in a room with a complete stranger.

“I don’t know what to say,” I mumble when I hear the door to our bathroom close, and the unmistakable sound of the lock clicking follows.

Claire looks at me with quiet eyes. She’s either unsure of Dominic or utterly cool with it. It’s hard to tell with her.

“What do you think he did to them?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, but I hope he hurt them. That’s all.”

Leaning closer to her so I can whisper, I say, “What if he killed them?”

“I don’t think he killed them. Say, that party was crowded. Think about that.”

“True,” I say haltingly.

Everything that the psychic had said to me comes to a resounding halt and I have to confront it. What had Dominic done to those guys? Sure, they deserved it, but why is he covered in blood? Whose blood is it? And how did he know which one of the guys to pummel?

The questions are mounting when the sound of the door opening dishevels the silence in the room, and he comes out, dressed in basketball shorts and a white tank top, drying his dark hair with a towel.

“Hey,” he says, and his anger inside seems to have diminished; his eyes are back to their standard emerald green.

“Hey,” I answer shortly, my annoyance sitting on the edge is bubbling.

“I know how bad that looked,” he starts, his deep voice a simmering hollow. “And it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, okay? I asked them where the two guys that came with the hot girls went. They pointed to a back room. I kicked the door in, and they were about to do it to another girl. I smashed some guy’s face in with a lamp; he fell over and bled all over me. It was enough to get the other two to run in the other direction. I picked the girl up, got her out, and called the police. Then I left in a hurry.”

His story sort of makes sense, but there are some holes in it. And I’m still annoyed.

“Well. Thank you for that,” Claire says, crossing her legs on the couch. “I was about to do the same thing.”

“I can’t stand when pansy ass men do that to women.”

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