Page 64 of A Killing Cold

“That’s like telling me to cut my arm off to avoid getting hurt,” I say, strangely calm.

He watches me for the space of a breath, two. Then, seeming to come to some kind of decision, he gives an almost-imperceptible nod. “There’s a buck close by,” he says. “I’m going to go around. You head that way.” A gloved finger points. “There’s a flat-topped boulder that way. Wait there. I’ll come collect you.”

He doesn’t wait for me to confirm. He strides off. So this is why he asked me out here. Not to get the measure of me—he already had that. To tell me to leave.

I follow his directions. It isn’t far, but the trek seems slowed by the flurry of thoughts in my mind. Everything he said about knowing me—does he? Has he guessed who I am, or did he know all along?

Why did you bring me here, Connor?

Up ahead, I spot the gray hump of the rock that Magnus told me about. It sits in a small clearing, but the clearing isn’t empty. A buck grazes there, indifferent to my approach. It raises its head without particular purpose, nose testing the air. Its ears flick, twitch, like it’s heard something—me, probably.

My bow hangs by my side. I make no effort to lift it, all urge to prove myself evaporating at the sight of its breath fogging the air, its dark eyes glistening with animal intelligence. I creep toward it, pressing myself close to the trunk of a tree and staying low, out of sight.

The buck moves forward a single step. You might mistake it for relaxed, the way it’s standing. You might think that it feels safe. But a creature like that knows that it is never safe. That there is always something waiting for it to slow, to take a wrong step. Something like me.

Suddenly the buck’s head jerks, ears swiveling toward some sound I didn’t catch. It looks toward the trees ahead of it, frozen in sudden alarm, and my gaze follows. For an instant, I think I see something—the barest hint of movement. A gray glint of metal. And then the deer bursts forward in violent motion, bounding for the other side of the clearing.

The brown flank passes me. In that instant I see what is directly on the other side of the clearing. A figure in an orange vest stands among the trees.

Connor, with an arrow drawn back, aiming directly for where the deer just was. Where I still am, directly beyond it.

Connor, releasing the arrow.

30

There’s blood on the snow.Clean as a bullet, Magnus said, and he wasn’t wrong. It’s a straight slash through the fabric of my coat, the shirt beneath it, the skin now slit apart and gaping.

I reach up and touch my throat. It’s wet. No, my fingers are wet, but the skin of my throat is whole.

I see again the brown flank of the deer. The orange vest. Connor, seeing me. The arrow releasing, so fast my eye barely registered it before the tug at my arm. No. No, he released the arrow before he saw me. Didn’t he? It was an accident.

Wasn’t it?

Connor is shouting and charging toward me, and I’m still standing here waiting to feel the pain.

“Theo! Theo, are you all right?”

The deer. Connor, loosing the arrow. Connor, eyes widening as he sees me.

He catches my hand.

“Theo?” he says. “Talk to me.”

The deer. Connor, eyes widening as he sees me.

Connor, loosing the arrow.

“She’s in shock,” someone says. “Put pressure on that. Sit her down.” Nick.

Connor wraps a hand around my upper arm, and suddenly the pain is there, lancing hot as a brand, and with it comes searing panic. I shove away from Connor, stumbling back.He saw me, he let go, he let go, he saw me—

“Theo—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Connor is stammering. I feel woozy. I start to sway.

“For fuck’s sake,” Nick says. He steps past Connor and catches me under my good arm. “Sit down before you pass out.”

His voice is cold and firm—almost angry. I let my legs fold and practically fall to the ground. The impact jars my arm. I let out a hiss of pain, which Nick ignores, kneeling down to peel apart the shredded edges of my sleeve to look at the wound.

“Nasty, but it didn’t get muscle,” he says. “You need stitches.” Up close, I can see every detail of his face. The scruff of his beard. The tiny scar under his left eye. “Come on. Let’s get you to the UTV.”

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