Page 36 of Looking Grimm

One of my rapid breaths stuttered, and I thought I might choke. I couldn’t call Donovan if I wanted to. He was gone and, for a second, I’d forgotten that. Tears sprung to my eyes, but I pushed them down alongside the panic and kept running.

The trees thinned ahead. No, not thinned. They ended.

A country road cut across the landscape, intersecting the distant highway and creating a dividing line between the woods and the next field.

I skidded to a stop on the last row of trees. My chest heaved and my nose ran from sucking down cold air. Wiping my sleeve across my face, I glanced over my shoulder at the liquor store and the grass obscuring the ground between me and it. Hiding the hounds, too, who I’d barely heard over the sounds of my own labored breathing and the wind whooshing past my ears. Now that I was stopped, their yelping cries were terrifyingly close.

No chance of outrunning them. No choice but to try.

I bolted into the open beyond the trees, racing across the narrow farm road where a car with its headlights off nearly crashed into me.

Brakes squealed and I lurched backward, hitting the ground on my ass and cradling the bottle of whiskey in my lap. Gasping, I looked up as the driver’s door flung wide and a tall man jumped out. Instinct screamed to mentally grab the new arrival by the throat and shake him until he went ragdoll-limp. I could steal his car and drive away. It was almost too good to be true.

But, when I stretched my hand toward the stranger, his shout stopped me cold.

“Fitch, wait!”

I knew that voice.

Blinking, I examined the car with its bug-eyed headlights and split windshield. The familiar old Woody Wagon parked before me with its engine rumbling low. And that made the man standing beside it…

“Nash?” I squeaked.

I couldn’t fathom how he’d found me and couldn’t reconcile the feelings churning in my gut. More than just relief. I was grateful, impressed, and a little turned on.

The barks and howls of the dogs closing in goaded me to my feet while Nash waved frantically toward the passenger side of the car.

“Get in!” he exclaimed. “Hurry!”

I darted around the vehicle, mentally opening the door before diving inside. Clutching the whiskey to my chest, I leaned across the front seats to see Nash lingering outside.

“What are you doing?” I hissed at him. “Let’s go!”

He held a bottle of his own, almost as large as the liter of alcohol I cradled. Ahead of him, a trio of hounds broke clear of the woods. I remembered Donovan’s body, gutted open by Jax’s claws and gurgling blood.

I said Nash’s name again, louder this time, and frantic. I couldn’t watch that happen to him. Seeing him hurt or killed would kill me, too.

He uncorked the bottle but kept his feet planted while the dogs charged forward in a V-formation. Closing fast.

“Nash!” I yelled.

Rearing back, he let the bottle fly. It spun through the air, leaking fluid that dotted the ground with licking flames. The vessel shattered on the ground right in front of the pursuing hounds.

Fire exploded with a blast of heat I felt even inside the car. The Woody Wagon rocked on its wheels as Nash ducked inside and shifted into reverse. He slung an arm across the top of my seat and craned his neck to see out the rear windows as we sped backward along the bumpy road.

I should have been watching the inferno left in our wake, but I caught myself staring at him instead. His face was drawn in concentration, and his skin glistened with sweat. He maneuvered the wagon like a stunt driver, slinging grit as thetires spun through a 180° turn.

We faced forward and continued speeding away from the disaster I’d narrowly escaped, and I almost couldn’t believe it. Itwastoo good to be true, even more so than I’d first thought. Nash settled into his seat, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel enough times to make it clear he was chockfull of adrenaline.

It took a few minutes for me to catch my breath enough to speak in full sentences before I asked, “How did you—?”

“You made the news,” Nash cut in. “Big break in the citywide manhunt for the infamous Fitch Farrow.” He said it in a mocking tone of voice, like an announcer for a live show.

I grimaced at the thought of more press coverage and wondered what kind of drivel they were feeding the hungry masses. An interview with that dopey clerk would be just the thing to entice viewers. A real public opinion piece. Some average Joe doing his part to ensure the safety of his community. Bet he pocketed my twenty dollars, too.

“And you just happened to be watching TV?” I asked.“It’s always on at the bar these days,” he said. “Helps with the quiet.”

Guilt twinged at the implication of his statement. Quiet was one of my least favorite things. It gave space for thoughts and fears to fester; it made me feel alone. Quiet also meant business was not improving at the Bitters’ End. I hardly expected it to. For a place that had been established as a haven for the likes of the Bloody Hex, the client base was limited to criminals or those who wanted to associate with them. Nash’s decision to ban Grimm had a ripple effect I wasn’t sure he’d counted on. Now, even criminals wouldn’tdarken his door for fear of repercussions from the Bloody Hex. The bar had been cut out and set on a steady decline, one it stood little hope of recovering from.

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