Page 29 of Of Sins and Sacrifice

We lift tens if not hundreds of stones of all sizes until we find the people buried under the rubble.

Some are still alive. Others are dead.

Seeing that I have a knack for finding the areas with survivors, he asks me to look around more while he drags the corpses of the unlucky people to the side.

I divide my attention in half, listening for breathing sounds or existing heartbeats but also surreptitiously studying him.

The people might be dead, but he treats them with the same respect as if they were alive. He covers the females up to preserve their modesty and closes the eyes of the males who’d died with a terrified expression on their faces. But it’s the children he’s most gentle with. He carries the dead children to the side with such care, it makes me guilty to think that just moments ago I wanted to leave this area and ignore the cries for help.

More than guilt, though, I feel…shame.

For every ten dead bodies we pull out of the rubble, we maybe find one alive but gravely injured. Even with my intervention, I doubt some of them will make it through the night.

Still, the soldier gives his all.

“When will help come?” I ask as we carry a female to the side. She’s missing an arm, cut badly at the elbow. Blood is pouring out at an alarming rate and I fear she will bleed out before she gets any medical attention.

His lips flatten.

“They should come…eventually. But by the time they do, it might be too late for a lot of these people,” he says, echoing my own thoughts.

Taking off his military jacket, now dirty and torn, he places it atop the female to warm her up. He’s left wearing a white shirt—though it’s not that white anymore—and a thin undershirt that peeks through the unbuttoned bit of the shirt.

He pulls on the bottom of his shirt, tearing a huge chunk of material, and ties it around her elbow where her arm had been severed.

We’re about to head back to search the debris when flashing lights appear from the end of the street. A procession of cars pulls up at the site of the accident. The first to get out of the vehicles are police officers, followed by nurses and medical staff. The last to arrive are the firefighters.

One of the police officers approaches us.

“The people on this side are still alive,” the soldier tells him. “The ones on that side are deceased.”

The officer nods, his eyes narrowing at us.

“A yank,” he comments drily.

“Major Lucien de Vitry, sir.”

“Well, Major, you did your duty. Now it is our turn. I would like you to step away from the site so you do not impede the efforts of theactualprofessionals.”

I blink.

His tone is downright offensive.

Aren’t those yanks supposed to be their allies in the war?

I expect soldier boy to have a fitting comeback, but instead, he bites his tongue and turns to leave.

What?

The officer turns his gaze to me, probably about to make a similar remark. But I don’t give him the opportunity as I dash after Lucien.

“You’re going to let him speak like that to you?” I ask as I reach his side. He’s walking fast. “After you saved all those people?”

“They wouldn’t want it known that ayanksaved those people.”

I frown.

“Why?”

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