Page 40 of Threadbound

Jamie quickly got to his feet and crossed the apartment, pushing aside the curtain that blocked the light from his window from shining on the bed. Bran was still, his eyes closed, his broken arm resting on top of the afghan blanket pulled halfway up his torso. It took longer than Jamie liked before he saw Bran’s chest rise and fall with shallow breaths—what felt like minutes, but must only have been fifteen or twenty seconds of trying to see a shift against the blankets, his own heart pounding with fear that Bran had somehow died.

But he was breathing, and once Jamie’d seen it, he could easily tell that Bran’s breaths were even and regular, if not terribly deep. He was a little alarmed at the strength of the relief that flowed through him—although it probably wasn’t unreasonable to be glad that a nearly-complete stranger hadn’t died in his bed.

“Jesus,” Jamie muttered to himself, running a hand through his slightly-too-long hair. Clearly, he needed more sleep and more food, because it was pretty obvious, even to him, that his brain really wasn’t working quite right. Given that he hadn’t actually slept for the last thirty-two or so hours, that was not surprising.

But his relief that Bran was still breathing was followed by concern that furrowed his brow. Bran had fallen asleep aroundsix-thirty, and it had been about eight hours. While the amount of sleep wasn’t particularly concerning, Jamie also knew that Bran had only eaten one ham sandwich and a granola bar, and his body probably needed more fuel than that to heal.

What he couldn’t decide was whether it would be better to leave Bran to sleep and just keep grazing himself, or whether he should make something substantial and then wake Bran up to make sure he ate. Jamie knew plenty about what medieval people thought was an appropriate treatment for things like broken bones and fevers—not that Bran seemed to have a fever—but he was also pretty sure that he probably shouldn’t rely on weird quasi-magical herbal remedies when there were things like Tylenol and fiberglass casts.

His stomach rumbled again, loudly, and Jamie decided that he probably needed something more substantial than just bread and eggs, especially since he hadn’t really eaten much yesterday, either—just a tuna sandwich and the apple he’d eaten while making the sandwiches.

Jamie paused, watching Bran take several more breaths, the long lashes resting on his cheeks fluttering slightly as his eyes moved behind his lids. Watching Bran sleep made Jamie feel oddly protective, andthatmade him uncomfortable. He didn’t know Bran, not really. Sure, they’d had a great conversation about old herbal remedies and folk beliefs, and he knew Bran wasn’t a touchy person, and he knew Bran was interested in the history of medicine and wasn’t at all squeamish about dead things… but he didn’tknowhim.

Bran liked fish, that Jamie knew. Sushi or fried. And fries—chips. And he was interested in Jamie for some reason. And somebody—more than one somebody, actually—evidently wanted him dead.

Jamie’s hands started to shake.

Apparently it took seventeen hours for him to actually process the fact that he’d put himself between Bran and death—and that might mean that whoever wanted Bran dead might now also wanthimdead. He tried to remember if Bran had used his name in front of his attackers. He didn’t think so, but everything had been a bit of a blur punctuated by panic and pain. But he really, really hoped Bran hadn’t said his name.

It wasn’t that Jamie was a stranger to violence—far from it, although as far as he’d been able to tell, Bill Eckel hadn’t actually ever tried tokillhim.

Jamie wasn’t much enjoying the thought that someone might want him dead, his heart pounding and his lungs tight. He tried to slow his respiration, to take long, deep breaths and get his racing heart under control.

“Jamie, stoppit,” he told himself, speaking out loud because he needed to hear a human voice. Since Bran was still unconscious, he’d have to make do with himself, as pathetic as that was.

Panicking wasn’t going to do anybody any good, least of all himself or Bran. Jamie’s stomach gurgled again, reminding him that he needed food—and so did Bran. Food was something he could do, and, whether or not somebody wanted them dead, they both had to eat.

His mother had once told him that everything got better with a good meal.

It hadn’t been the worst time Bill Eckel had taken out his rage on Jamie’s face and body, but it also hadn’t been one of the better times, either. Not that there really were ‘better’ times, exactly. He’d been eight or nine, and after Bill had worked out enough of his frustration, he’d shoved his way out of the house and into his truck, presumably to head to one of the handful of bars in Union County to drink himself even stupider on a dozen or more beers. Jamie’s momma had bundled him into bed,setting Billy—the oldest of Jamie’s younger half-siblings—in his playpen in Jamie’s room and telling him to call her if anything happened.

Nothing did—Billy had learned very young that staying quiet was a less painful way to get through life—and Jamie’s momma had come back into the room with steaming bowls of mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs. Jamie’s favorite food when he was a kid.

Nell had brought him a heaping bowl, accompanied by a big glass of apple juice. Billy had gotten some, too, and Nell had sat on the end of Jamie’s bed with a bowl of her own, and they’d eaten their dinner while she told stories about giants and massive dogs and making wishes granted by fairies.

“Not every wish is granted the way you think, Jamie. Remember that.”

That year, on his birthday, he’d wished for someone new to come into his life. For someone who wouldn’t laugh at him or shove him or hit him. Someone who would tell him stories that his mother didn’t know and make him mac and cheese.

Looking back, Jamie understood that he’d wanted to be loved.

It wasn’t that his mother didn’t love him—he knew she did. She’d loved him the best that she could. She’d just made choices that put him in danger. Choices that she was too afraid to undo.

Choices that ultimately killed her.

Now Jamie really wanted mac and cheese with hot dogs. But that wasn’t going to happen without a trip to the grocery store, and he didn’t want to leave Bran.

He could do pasta and a white sauce, so he decided on a noodle casserole that would be filling, even if it was going to be disappointing simply because it wasn’t what he wanted it to be. Jamie let out a heavy sigh and started filling a pot with water.

Chapter

Nineteen

There were about fifteen minutes left on the timer for the casserole—noodles, tuna, peas, and white beans with parmesan white sauce, topped with cornflakes. It wasn’t fancy. Hell, it wasn’t even something Jamie would normally feed to anyone else, since he knew full well that tuna noodle casserole was about as haven’t-left-the-1950s lower-middle class as you could get. But it was food, and it would be hot and fairly filling, and those were the important things, he reminded himself.

He was also making garlic bread to go with the casserole, although that was even more pathetic, since all he had was sliced bread, so the best he could do were sad toast points—a slice cut into four pieces—smeared with margarine and dusted with garlic powder. Those were waiting to go into the undersized oven when the casserole came out.

It was nearly four, and Jamie had caved and made himself more sandwiches, although he felt guilty about eating without Bran. He told himself he was being ridiculous, since Bran was still asleep, but it didn’t help. Especially since all he was doing now was worrying about the fact that Bran was still asleep.

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