Page 8 of Guarded from Havoc

Everything spins. Blurs. Darkens.

Black edges in.

Why?

The last thing I hear is a furious roar.

“I’ll kill you for hurting her!”

Erik!

The darkness comes.

CHAPTER 2

ERIK

Why the fuckdoes my head hurt so much?

It feels like a giant hand has hold of my skull, twisting and squeezing.

Pain throbs behind my eyes. My pulse echoes through my head in aching waves.

A swell of nausea makes my mouth water. Bile burns the back of my throat.

Am I hungover? Did I have one too many drinks during our game night? I usually stick to just one or two—hating the lack of awareness that comes with more than that—but I suppose it’s possible I could have had more.

But enough to feel likethis? Like my head is about to explode? Like I’ve been hit by a proverbial truck and I’m seconds away from vomiting?

And why don’t I remember?

That’s not me. I never,everlet myself lose control like this. Not even when I was young, and definitely not at the age of thirty-seven, when my body can’t handle alcohol like it used to.

Body protesting, I force my eyes open, though I immediately wish I hadn’t.

The sun is huge in the sky, blinding in its unfiltered brightness. What would normally be a pretty picture—a brilliant blue sky unmarred by clouds—brings unwilling tears to my eyes.

Instinctively, my eyes slam shut again.

For a moment, there’s just cool relief.

Then the questions worm back in.

Why am I outside?

Why do I feel like I have the mother of all hangovers?

Why are there sharp things digging into my back?

And why—as I reluctantly take another look around, squinting this time—are there trees all around me?

Not oaks and elms and magnolias, like we have on the Blade and Arrow property, but the spruces and white pines native to the Northeast.

As scattered puzzle pieces of memory slot together, I remember. The Adirondacks. The rental cabin just outside Tupper Lake; a gift from my teammate’s wife, Lucy. Hikes through the woods, enjoying the crisp morning air that feels more fall than summer. The birds calling to each other through the trees as I pass by them.

Did something happen while I was out for a hike? An accident? A tumble down a hill or off a cliff? Or—God forbid—a stroke, even though my doctor claimed my chances were low compared to other people with traumatic brain injuries?

Panic wells up, so fast and insistent, I’m breathless from it.

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