Page 69 of The Fallen
The door flew open, and Bryn prepared to summon his fireball. He lifted his palm… and turned into a cat.
Fuck! It must have struck midnight!
Through the smoke, he saw Fedor, the entire top of his head gone and blood and brains pouring out of the empty shell as if it were a jack-o-lantern on its side. He didn’t see Grady, but three Russians lay dead. Unfortunately, the fourth—the man who’d grabbed Bryn by the throat—stood aiming an assault rifle into the closet. They had nowhere to go.
But Bryn wasn’t giving up. He wasn’t giving Gil up. He raised his back and bared his teeth, hissing and preparing to pounce.
He never got the chance.
A deafening shot rang out, and blood spread across the Russian’s chest. As he crumpled to the side, Bryn snatched his soul and shoved it into his pouch. Through the thickening smoke, he saw Doddie MacNeil holding the shotgun he always kept by the door.
“Gil?” Doddie shouted. “Gil!”
“I’m here!” Gil scooped Bryn into his arms, and the next thing he knew, he was sandwiched between Gil and his uncle as they held each other. Flames from Bryn’s distraction had alighted the curtains and the shiplap paneling on the walls, and the fire now crept across the ceiling.
“We need to get out of here,” Uncle Doddie said just as a big chunk of the ceiling collapsed and the flames spread to the second floor, blackening the wooden beams.
With a hoarse cry, Grady emerged from the hallway. Blood coated his face, and he’d replaced his pistol with a butcher knife. He raised it over his head and ran toward them.
Uncle Doddie lifted the shotgun. “Don’t make me do it, boy.”
Gil dropped Bryn and faced Grady, stepping between Grady and his uncle. He caught Grady’s wrist in his big hand and snapped it before driving his other fist into Grady’s stomach, the force of the blow practically lifting him off his feet. The knife clattered to the floor, and Gil held Grady by his wrist, lifting him until he scrabbled for purchase with his toes, letting him dangle there the way Grady had let Bryn dangle over the frozen ocean.
Grady spit a glob of blood into Gil’s face. “You big stupid fuck. I’ll tell them it was all you, and they’ll believe me. The Russians will believe me and so will the cops. You’ll be dead or back in jail, and then….” Grady’s eyes moved to Uncle Doddie and Bryn, who stood next to his feet.
And he calls Gil stupid, Bryn thought.The dumb fud could’ve run away. What the fuck is he trying ta do?
Gil chuckled. He stood tall with his shoulder back and his gray eyes reflecting the firelight “I’m not taking anymore shit from you. No more insults. No more threatening the people I love.” He let go of Grady’s wrist and before Grady fell, Gil took hold of the sides of his head and twisted, snapping his neck.
The humans couldn’t see it, but Bryn bounded over and caught Grady’s soul as it sprung from his head. It wriggled like a fish in his claw as he shoved it into his pouch. Never had a soul been more deserving of Hell. Then he jumped into Gil’s arms and onto his shoulder, where he perched as they walked out into the sweet, fresh night air.
By the time they reached the powder-blue pickup, flames shot a dozen feet from the roof of the house. It would surely burn to the ground.
As Uncle Doddie stowed his shotgun behind the truck seat, Gil said, “I guess Grady was right. Those cedar shingles really are a fire hazard.”
Uncle Doddie took the long way home and during the drive, Gil held Bryn in his lap and told his uncle everything that had happened since he’d taken the rap for the murder Grady committed. Gil finished with “I won’t let any of this come back on you.”
“None of this is coming back on either of us,” Uncle Doddie said. “They’ll find the SUV, and they might even find the bodies in whatever’s left of the house. But they’ll never know we were there. If there’s an investigation, they’ll figure Grady and the Russians killed each other. Hell, half of Cutler knew what that boy was doing. He was a bully and a twerp. He won’t be missed.”
Doddie parked the truck in front of the bay window, now covered with a sheet of plywood. Both of them trudged inside with Bryn trotting along at their heels.
“Coffee?” Uncle Doddie asked.
Gil shook his head. “I just need a shower and some sleep.”
Bryn hopped up onto the kitchen table, and Uncle Doddie scratched him behind the ears. “This cat really must have nine lives, making it through the storm and now this. He’s something special.”
“Yeah,” Gil said, with the first smile Bryn had seen since they’d left Grand Manan Island. “He is.”
CHAPTER 11
Bryn waited on the bed while Gil stood in the hot shower for almost half an hour. As far as he was concerned, Gil had done the right thing getting rid of Grady, but humans struggled with death and killing. Would he be haunted by regret? By guilt? Bryn didn’t understand those concepts, so he didn’t know how he’d help Gil. But he would try. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Gil emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of cedar-scented steam, his skin scrubbed pink and a towel wrapped around his hips. Bryn stood and stretched his front legs out, backside in the air. Then he rolled onto his back and tucked his paws up under his chin as he watched Gil remove the towel and rub his wet hair. For the first time, Bryn took in the sight of his body in full light, and he thought it would be a very long time until next Friday.
After slipping into a T-shirt and pair of flannel pajama pants, Gil stretched out on the bed and Bryn settled on his chest. Gil stroked his back and pulled the quilt over both of them. It soon became delightfully toasty under the blankets. Bryn butted his head under Gil’s chin and purred as he groomed Gil’s beard with his tongue. It was coming in thick and bright red, and Bryn liked it a lot.
Chuckling, Gil said, “I assume you can understand me even if you can’t answer.”
